[And though time has pressed subtle changes into them both, whether for good or ill, Sephiroth finds that the core of Aerith is something that cannot be so easily shaken — that brightness of spirit, a sort of immutable color that refuses to fade despite the steel belly of the corporation they live in. Paired with it is a fierce stubbornness, like a hardy flower in winter (apt, he thinks), the sort that roots itself into the ground and refuses to budge, a smile brightening her eyes the entire time.
The same sort of stubbornness that has her mounting the neighboring chocobo with ease; so easily, in fact, that Sephiroth thinks for a moment that she has done something with far less effort than he even managed, that perhaps her hidden talents are as such: exchanging secrets with the Planet, possessing a green thumb that makes plantlife grow and dance within the humid air of a glass greenhouse, and... chocobo riding.
The bird seems to like her well enough, warking a happy noise that his own hasn’t thought to utter. It even straightens with that same enthusiasm, and before Sephiroth can think to remark, the words catch in his throat—
Because he can see it as it’s happening. A slow-motion tragedy on display, playing out before his scrutinizing eyes. Aerith tilts, and then she tilts too much for him to call her anywhere near balanced, and soon she’ll be fumbling out of that saddle and straight into the floor.]
Aerith—
[Sephiroth is liquid, silver smooth as he hops off his chocobo with such militant vigor it might be called a leap. His boots thud against metal as he lands and lunges himself forward, an arm extended to catch her along her back, hooking around her shoulders if he’s successful. The momentum is nothing against him — so very little is — and his frame barely even jostles.
Brow knit, he finds himself huffing out air between his teeth.]
Practicing how to properly fall off one of these animals is getting ahead of yourself. Are you hurt?
THAT ICON IS STILL KILLING ME
The same sort of stubbornness that has her mounting the neighboring chocobo with ease; so easily, in fact, that Sephiroth thinks for a moment that she has done something with far less effort than he even managed, that perhaps her hidden talents are as such: exchanging secrets with the Planet, possessing a green thumb that makes plantlife grow and dance within the humid air of a glass greenhouse, and... chocobo riding.
The bird seems to like her well enough, warking a happy noise that his own hasn’t thought to utter. It even straightens with that same enthusiasm, and before Sephiroth can think to remark, the words catch in his throat—
Because he can see it as it’s happening. A slow-motion tragedy on display, playing out before his scrutinizing eyes. Aerith tilts, and then she tilts too much for him to call her anywhere near balanced, and soon she’ll be fumbling out of that saddle and straight into the floor.]
Aerith—
[Sephiroth is liquid, silver smooth as he hops off his chocobo with such militant vigor it might be called a leap. His boots thud against metal as he lands and lunges himself forward, an arm extended to catch her along her back, hooking around her shoulders if he’s successful. The momentum is nothing against him — so very little is — and his frame barely even jostles.
Brow knit, he finds himself huffing out air between his teeth.]
Practicing how to properly fall off one of these animals is getting ahead of yourself. Are you hurt?