[ While Claude handles everything, Aerith presses her hands to her chest, the process of accepting everything unraveling before her beginning with a single key detail: Don Corneo is probably far, far away from here. That's not something she can easily accept, if only because it lays trouble at her friends' feet. What'll they do without her? Cloud's not that tough. What if he freaks out again, like when they talked about Sephiroth? If nothing else, he has to be close by, right?
Her head stays lowered, her eyes trained upon the smashed, dying flowers. The irony of her arrival is not lost on her. Her head raises, again, looking at Claude's back. He looks back; does he sense her staring? The wink just makes her feel smaller. It's no fault of his own, though: She'd hardly blame him. Look at him, taking care of her mess. This is awful.
Aerith can hardly tell if it's frustration, embarrassment, or raw determination blooming in her heart right now. Is there a difference between any of these feelings, as burning and all-consuming as they are? There he goes tucking a flower into his hair, like he's used to picking up strange women's messes like this. The starry silver bracelet on her hand jingles as she lowers one arm.
With a nod, she speaks.
Before turning and immediately making for the door, desperate to see the world outside: is it what she thinks it is? That'll be her confirmation. If it is, then she's in for a world of confusion that her sleep-addled mind is not prepared for. But over her shoulder, she responds, nonchalantly. ]
Aerith. I'm Aerith. [ And keeps going, rudely. It's only when she's a few steps from the door that she stops, heels no longer clicking on the floor, and swivels around to look at him again. ] This isn't abnormal, is it? [ At least there's that. ]
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Her head stays lowered, her eyes trained upon the smashed, dying flowers. The irony of her arrival is not lost on her. Her head raises, again, looking at Claude's back. He looks back; does he sense her staring? The wink just makes her feel smaller. It's no fault of his own, though: She'd hardly blame him. Look at him, taking care of her mess. This is awful.
Aerith can hardly tell if it's frustration, embarrassment, or raw determination blooming in her heart right now. Is there a difference between any of these feelings, as burning and all-consuming as they are? There he goes tucking a flower into his hair, like he's used to picking up strange women's messes like this. The starry silver bracelet on her hand jingles as she lowers one arm.
With a nod, she speaks.
Before turning and immediately making for the door, desperate to see the world outside: is it what she thinks it is? That'll be her confirmation. If it is, then she's in for a world of confusion that her sleep-addled mind is not prepared for. But over her shoulder, she responds, nonchalantly. ]
Aerith. I'm Aerith. [ And keeps going, rudely. It's only when she's a few steps from the door that she stops, heels no longer clicking on the floor, and swivels around to look at him again. ] This isn't abnormal, is it? [ At least there's that. ]