[She doesn’t look like she belongs in here, is the first thing that sweeps across his mind, and perhaps that’s cold and too empirical to say without sounding like he doesn’t wish for her company. That isn’t the case, not necessarily, and it’s a good kind of fortune that he was never the kind of boy to say exactly what he was thinking. Never one for hot impulse, everything kept tamped down and turned over in his head before given clearance to speak.
And besides, that isn’t how he means it. Aerith doesn’t look like she belongs in here the same way the chocobo doesn’t; too bright against the fenced-in walls of steel and exorbitantly expensive, advanced tech. Too alive and fluid, a thing of organic matter in a program existing to train Shinra’s best in stamping out life, one heartbeat at a time. Not like him, a war machine atop a chocobo. Straight lines and militant manner being slowly hammered into his bones as each day passes them by.
It’s in the face of this stark dichotomy that realization overcomes him. When was the last time they spoke like this, face-to-face with no one to oversee or overhear? It feels like an age since they were children, as if the space between then and now had been stretched too thin — days when they would play together, or she would invite him to draw sprawling, colorful lines across the planes of her room. Listening to her speak about the proper way to grow plants, or what it really meant to be an ancient (a Cetra, wasn’t it?), or the somber veil that overcame too-knowing eyes when she spoke about her mother; and Sephiroth merely listened, because he could not relate, and sympathy was an alien thing he wished to give, but fished for clumsily because Shinra never thought to equip him with anything beyond the expectation of the battlefield.
Though the distance between them is negligible — high on a chocobo, versus feet planted on the ground — she seems taller, or older, or more tired than he recalls, and thus further away. A restlessness in those eyes he’s come to know because he’s worn it, too, on the days where Hojo is more needling, more unsatisfied with the ream of results, patience worn thin. (He would have liked to see her throw that book at the man. He had asked about the gauze over the bridge of the scientist’s nose because he had felt churlish, told only, That’s hardly any concern of yours.)
Yet the advent of the SOLDIER program had loosened the science department’s grip on him, granting Sephiroth the ability to release that listless nature in the vicious swipe of a sword, not so much a freedom than it was an expansion of his cage. Perhaps it wasn’t the same for her, for when he passes by her room, or spies her through glass, or down the long corridor of Shinra’s corporate belly, she turns to him with something bright and wistful on her lips, and maybe sometimes he barely smiles, but ultimately he’s pulled away by appointment or obligation.
All this rushing through his thoughts like a flood, the pinch of a brow the only proof for it. Though his mind churns, his words are plain, as always.]
I’m not upset. But this isn’t—
[For no reason, other than pure animal whimsy, his chocobo kwehs melodiously and shuffles its bird feet just enough to jostle the words from his throat. It dips its head low towards Aerith, curious.
Sephiroth’s hand moves to the horn of the saddle, gripping tight to keep balance, his thighs pressed hard against the bird.]
...This is my training.
[How ridiculously childish that sounded in the wake of holding steady. Silver has fallen into his eyes as he lowers his gaze upon Aerith again.]
You’re authorized to be here?
[The second chocobo shakes out its feathers, unimpressed by the sterile surroundings so far departed from the wide expanse beyond Midgar’s walls — likely from where it had been temporarily requisitioned, a ranch out in the middle of nowhere, swathed in green with bright yellow birds preening behind wooden stables.]
no subject
And besides, that isn’t how he means it. Aerith doesn’t look like she belongs in here the same way the chocobo doesn’t; too bright against the fenced-in walls of steel and exorbitantly expensive, advanced tech. Too alive and fluid, a thing of organic matter in a program existing to train Shinra’s best in stamping out life, one heartbeat at a time. Not like him, a war machine atop a chocobo. Straight lines and militant manner being slowly hammered into his bones as each day passes them by.
It’s in the face of this stark dichotomy that realization overcomes him. When was the last time they spoke like this, face-to-face with no one to oversee or overhear? It feels like an age since they were children, as if the space between then and now had been stretched too thin — days when they would play together, or she would invite him to draw sprawling, colorful lines across the planes of her room. Listening to her speak about the proper way to grow plants, or what it really meant to be an ancient (a Cetra, wasn’t it?), or the somber veil that overcame too-knowing eyes when she spoke about her mother; and Sephiroth merely listened, because he could not relate, and sympathy was an alien thing he wished to give, but fished for clumsily because Shinra never thought to equip him with anything beyond the expectation of the battlefield.
Though the distance between them is negligible — high on a chocobo, versus feet planted on the ground — she seems taller, or older, or more tired than he recalls, and thus further away. A restlessness in those eyes he’s come to know because he’s worn it, too, on the days where Hojo is more needling, more unsatisfied with the ream of results, patience worn thin. (He would have liked to see her throw that book at the man. He had asked about the gauze over the bridge of the scientist’s nose because he had felt churlish, told only, That’s hardly any concern of yours.)
Yet the advent of the SOLDIER program had loosened the science department’s grip on him, granting Sephiroth the ability to release that listless nature in the vicious swipe of a sword, not so much a freedom than it was an expansion of his cage. Perhaps it wasn’t the same for her, for when he passes by her room, or spies her through glass, or down the long corridor of Shinra’s corporate belly, she turns to him with something bright and wistful on her lips, and maybe sometimes he barely smiles, but ultimately he’s pulled away by appointment or obligation.
All this rushing through his thoughts like a flood, the pinch of a brow the only proof for it. Though his mind churns, his words are plain, as always.]
I’m not upset. But this isn’t—
[For no reason, other than pure animal whimsy, his chocobo kwehs melodiously and shuffles its bird feet just enough to jostle the words from his throat. It dips its head low towards Aerith, curious.
Sephiroth’s hand moves to the horn of the saddle, gripping tight to keep balance, his thighs pressed hard against the bird.]
...This is my training.
[How ridiculously childish that sounded in the wake of holding steady. Silver has fallen into his eyes as he lowers his gaze upon Aerith again.]
You’re authorized to be here?
[The second chocobo shakes out its feathers, unimpressed by the sterile surroundings so far departed from the wide expanse beyond Midgar’s walls — likely from where it had been temporarily requisitioned, a ranch out in the middle of nowhere, swathed in green with bright yellow birds preening behind wooden stables.]