"I don't want them back," probably counts as an argument, but there's nothing in his tone (for once) that lends to further rebuttal. He finds it hard to say definite things, outside of situations which prohibit anything else - but that sense of finality comes easily to him, now. She isn't like fighting with a stranger, someone he could brush off and let suffer the coldest shoulder he can manage. But if he's honest with himself, Tifa isn't like anything or anybody.

Given time enough (and the will) to consider this feeling, he might've been surprised to find how his image of her hasn't deteriorated in the least, over the years. How she's still the one standing next to that impossible goal - accompanied by others, now, perhaps, but only as background noise. He doesn't want to be with them any less, but it's her who was there first.

So he keeps his hands knotted (because he isn't that person, yet), and he pulls them away from hers (because he hasn't merited that warmth). "Just..." he sighs, bringing his knees up in toward his concave chest, no matter how it pulls at the hurt in his side and the one above his ankle, and turning his head toward the far wall, empty space. As if he'd been stranded here, alone.

"Keep them."