Snow? In Midgar? If he wasn't so busy trying not to move or breathe or shift in any way at all that could possibly give him away (even his hands still, for an instant, as she makes herself more comfortable, before resuming their repetitive motion for warmth), he might have actually laughed.
No, it doesn't snow like this, in Midgar, and even if it did, there'd be little to no accumulation, on the ground. (A fact that should remain so, he thinks, as he imagines the kind of vile, sludgy, mako-scented mush that might drift on those bleak, black streets. Considering the source, any children building snowmen would be liable to get eaten by them.) In his two (and just the start of one) winters' experience, rainy and humid are more like the city's main staples, with a couple of months of potentially dangerous ice somewhere in the middle. Snowfall there comes more like an ornamental dressing on the atmosphere - heavy or light, Midgar's busy inner workings, close quarters, and general overpopulation melt most flakes before they ever touch that ground above the ground. A light dusting is the most inclement he's ever seen the weather, there, save for on the very outskirts.
(It did occur to him, once, that maybe they see it worse in the slums - but the thought was dismissed just as quick. No, the Plate would keep most of it from their homes and businesses, like.)
At any rate, he should be listening - not reminiscing - in case she asks him something important, or has some imminent change of heart over their current position. To him, of course, the latter seems likely, but there isn't anything new in her speaking just to speak spiel. He can still clearly recall thinking much the same of Midgar, himself (or, more accurately, of everywhere else in the world, outside of their suffocatingly small town).
Once she's finished, Cloud shakes his head, back inside that ungainly helmet, and softens a little at the edges, for what little's visible. (And when he lets go of her shoulders to rub his hands together, he cups them close to his mouth to catch his breath, and takes the opportunity to stealthily tuck his hair back behind his cowl. His heart hasn't quite quit its breakneck pace, but this is beginning to feel manageable, at least.)
It isn't that great, in the city, and he's come to find far more dreams find their way there to die than ever to flourish, but even with a voice he wouldn't want to tell her that. Because if somebody had put it like that to him, all those years ago, he might never have left. And even a big city packed with broken hearts and forgotten or forever stagnating ambitions turned out to be a little better than their isolation, here above the clouds. Midgar has its own cap of fog, polluted and smoggy with discontent, but even there he's seen the sun shine brighter.
my god. we've all walked right into your trap
No, it doesn't snow like this, in Midgar, and even if it did, there'd be little to no accumulation, on the ground. (A fact that should remain so, he thinks, as he imagines the kind of vile, sludgy, mako-scented mush that might drift on those bleak, black streets. Considering the source, any children building snowmen would be liable to get eaten by them.) In his two (and just the start of one) winters' experience, rainy and humid are more like the city's main staples, with a couple of months of potentially dangerous ice somewhere in the middle. Snowfall there comes more like an ornamental dressing on the atmosphere - heavy or light, Midgar's busy inner workings, close quarters, and general overpopulation melt most flakes before they ever touch that ground above the ground. A light dusting is the most inclement he's ever seen the weather, there, save for on the very outskirts.
(It did occur to him, once, that maybe they see it worse in the slums - but the thought was dismissed just as quick. No, the Plate would keep most of it from their homes and businesses, like.)
At any rate, he should be listening - not reminiscing - in case she asks him something important, or has some imminent change of heart over their current position. To him, of course, the latter seems likely, but there isn't anything new in her speaking just to speak spiel. He can still clearly recall thinking much the same of Midgar, himself (or, more accurately, of everywhere else in the world, outside of their suffocatingly small town).
Once she's finished, Cloud shakes his head, back inside that ungainly helmet, and softens a little at the edges, for what little's visible. (And when he lets go of her shoulders to rub his hands together, he cups them close to his mouth to catch his breath, and takes the opportunity to stealthily tuck his hair back behind his cowl. His heart hasn't quite quit its breakneck pace, but this is beginning to feel manageable, at least.)
It isn't that great, in the city, and he's come to find far more dreams find their way there to die than ever to flourish, but even with a voice he wouldn't want to tell her that. Because if somebody had put it like that to him, all those years ago, he might never have left. And even a big city packed with broken hearts and forgotten or forever stagnating ambitions turned out to be a little better than their isolation, here above the clouds. Midgar has its own cap of fog, polluted and smoggy with discontent, but even there he's seen the sun shine brighter.