He pulls up his collar a little higher, unable to ignore entirely the way the scarf's absence leaves a cold, empty shape behind, without the weight of fabric to hold that little vestige of the freezing weather further at bay. He still has both the jacket he's clinging to and the thinner undershirt beneath, though, and he so he doesn't regret relinquishing a bit more of his uniform. Piece by piece, he'd give her the rest of it, too, if it wouldn't both bring his wounds into better light and cement his impression as far more than just slightly off.
A cadet stripped down to his socks, shorts, and helmet was something you'd occasionally see around recruitment drives (or on particular nights when SOLDIERs opted to drink with the army), but not a sight most civilians were apt to let slide. Especially not so when trapped alone with said cadet in the middle of a snowstorm.
Even if it would've been to her benefit, strictly. It's hard to imagine Tifa taking more from him, anyway, even as he watches her hesitantly (what he takes for reluctantly) picking up the scarf he's foisted off on her. It doesn't seem like any grand, romantic gesture, to Cloud - but neither does anything he's done for her, today. It's a duty, an obligation. A good one, and one he goes to willingly, without thinking, but the weight of his promise is still at war with his inability to become somebody worthy of keeping it. And while he doesn't know, now, it's likely always to be.
Even the distracting cold coupled with the muddled trails of his thought can't keep the surprise from his half-expression at her little confession, though. I wanted to look cute and I hoped I'd see someone put together send his heart through another of those uneasy lurches, no matter how quickly he tells himself it's a gut reaction and he knows it's wrong. His lips were freezing and now they're numb, his fingers and toes following after as he tries to imagine what that'd be like - how it would have felt to come home to Tifa's welcome, instead of in anonymous disgrace. To meet Tifa at the gate. Tifa, who'd dressed up in something special because she knew he was coming; Tifa, who would show him around all of the things that've changed in town, and laugh about all the things that haven't, and maybe about silly childhood promises, too.
That isn't how things are, though; at this rate, it's how they'll never be.
When she leans into him again, he jerks, avoiding the warmth in that smile because he isn't who it's meant for, whoever he is in her eyes. But he doesn't move further, just waits for her to settle close once more, just trying to hold steady because it's all that he can do. He isn't the one in the picture-perfect version of reality that should've been.
"Who?" he asks, though, anyway. Making a sound that's like clearing his throat but really just means he's trying to mask his voice more, as that numbness creeps into the rest of him. "...Who was it?"
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A cadet stripped down to his socks, shorts, and helmet was something you'd occasionally see around recruitment drives (or on particular nights when SOLDIERs opted to drink with the army), but not a sight most civilians were apt to let slide. Especially not so when trapped alone with said cadet in the middle of a snowstorm.
Even if it would've been to her benefit, strictly. It's hard to imagine Tifa taking more from him, anyway, even as he watches her hesitantly (what he takes for reluctantly) picking up the scarf he's foisted off on her. It doesn't seem like any grand, romantic gesture, to Cloud - but neither does anything he's done for her, today. It's a duty, an obligation. A good one, and one he goes to willingly, without thinking, but the weight of his promise is still at war with his inability to become somebody worthy of keeping it. And while he doesn't know, now, it's likely always to be.
Even the distracting cold coupled with the muddled trails of his thought can't keep the surprise from his half-expression at her little confession, though. I wanted to look cute and I hoped I'd see someone put together send his heart through another of those uneasy lurches, no matter how quickly he tells himself it's a gut reaction and he knows it's wrong. His lips were freezing and now they're numb, his fingers and toes following after as he tries to imagine what that'd be like - how it would have felt to come home to Tifa's welcome, instead of in anonymous disgrace. To meet Tifa at the gate. Tifa, who'd dressed up in something special because she knew he was coming; Tifa, who would show him around all of the things that've changed in town, and laugh about all the things that haven't, and maybe about silly childhood promises, too.
That isn't how things are, though; at this rate, it's how they'll never be.
When she leans into him again, he jerks, avoiding the warmth in that smile because he isn't who it's meant for, whoever he is in her eyes. But he doesn't move further, just waits for her to settle close once more, just trying to hold steady because it's all that he can do. He isn't the one in the picture-perfect version of reality that should've been.
"Who?" he asks, though, anyway. Making a sound that's like clearing his throat but really just means he's trying to mask his voice more, as that numbness creeps into the rest of him. "...Who was it?"