If the careful lean of her shoulder pressing insistently into his chest hadn't done it, already, that seemingly simple request would've surely been the straw that seized him up so neatly he'd even stopped breathing. As it is, he doesn't think he can start again - let alone summon up the will to not only move his arms, but actually wrap them around her. It seems far more likely that he's simply succumbed to the elements and that this weird, alternate reality wherein Tifa is not only alone with him, again - but huddling close for warmth - must be a part of that. This sort of thing certainly isn't possible in any reality he's ever known to be true, and that leaves him with-
(What?)
An ill-timed, misplaced memory floats to the surface before he quite recognizes that that's what it is, but the echo of familiar laughter ringing in his head spurs him into some sort of action - so maybe he should be thankful, instead of mildly resentful, even with the remembrance of further embarrassment lingering on like the bitter aftertaste of all the other times when he didn't know what to do.
The motion is so broken and halting that he jerks away from her, at first - if only for the second it takes him to start. Then, like some wind-up toy soldier that's all broken up on the inside but still determined to move for some inexplicable force of will, he manages to get an arm around her. It's impossible to relax, though he knows just miming the action won't do either of them any good, and so Cloud attempts at least to let the weight of the limb rest on the curve of her back, stiff as he remains. Even close up as she is, the (suddenly meek and uncertain) rational voice in his mind still insists that there's no chance she can hear the violent, staccato beat of his heart so clearly as he can, himself. Not unless she presses her ear to his chest, and if she really does that, he thinks his chances of leaving this outpost as anything but a popsicle may well dwindle to naught.
He doesn't know if catastrophic heart failure is a possibility at sixteen, but he's paged through enough old medical manuals in his aimless research to know that stranger things have happened.
Holding on only to be laughed out of the Inn, back in town, doesn't motivate him much - but the thought of Tifa trudging home through the drifts alone (only to be attacked by another monster or caught in an avalanche or) gets his other arm around her. No romantic thoughts under that bucket he calls a helmet, not at all. Just the immediate and pressing concern of her proximity and the fringe of blond she might glimpse if she looks up from that angle, the hair he really should've gotten cut, again, before coming back to this apparently cursed place. Except-
Well, no. That isn't exactly fair. It's he who's cursed, and this is just more proof of the fact.
Tifa you monster
If the careful lean of her shoulder pressing insistently into his chest hadn't done it, already, that seemingly simple request would've surely been the straw that seized him up so neatly he'd even stopped breathing. As it is, he doesn't think he can start again - let alone summon up the will to not only move his arms, but actually wrap them around her. It seems far more likely that he's simply succumbed to the elements and that this weird, alternate reality wherein Tifa is not only alone with him, again - but huddling close for warmth - must be a part of that. This sort of thing certainly isn't possible in any reality he's ever known to be true, and that leaves him with-
(What?)
An ill-timed, misplaced memory floats to the surface before he quite recognizes that that's what it is, but the echo of familiar laughter ringing in his head spurs him into some sort of action - so maybe he should be thankful, instead of mildly resentful, even with the remembrance of further embarrassment lingering on like the bitter aftertaste of all the other times when he didn't know what to do.
The motion is so broken and halting that he jerks away from her, at first - if only for the second it takes him to start. Then, like some wind-up toy soldier that's all broken up on the inside but still determined to move for some inexplicable force of will, he manages to get an arm around her. It's impossible to relax, though he knows just miming the action won't do either of them any good, and so Cloud attempts at least to let the weight of the limb rest on the curve of her back, stiff as he remains. Even close up as she is, the (suddenly meek and uncertain) rational voice in his mind still insists that there's no chance she can hear the violent, staccato beat of his heart so clearly as he can, himself. Not unless she presses her ear to his chest, and if she really does that, he thinks his chances of leaving this outpost as anything but a popsicle may well dwindle to naught.
He doesn't know if catastrophic heart failure is a possibility at sixteen, but he's paged through enough old medical manuals in his aimless research to know that stranger things have happened.
Holding on only to be laughed out of the Inn, back in town, doesn't motivate him much - but the thought of Tifa trudging home through the drifts alone (only to be attacked by another monster or caught in an avalanche or) gets his other arm around her. No romantic thoughts under that bucket he calls a helmet, not at all. Just the immediate and pressing concern of her proximity and the fringe of blond she might glimpse if she looks up from that angle, the hair he really should've gotten cut, again, before coming back to this apparently cursed place. Except-
Well, no. That isn't exactly fair. It's he who's cursed, and this is just more proof of the fact.