[ With the soles of his boots scraping rough over the freshly painted slats of wood cobbled together into the quaint little arched bridge beneath him, he's all but dragging his feet, on approach. And he probably looks like a misbehaved little kid skirting his chances of getting caught red-handed, for his trouble, but there isn't enough self-consciousness in Cloud yet to correct this poor excuse for a show of good will.
Because he isn't any better at this kind of combat, where it's words (however few) instead of swords or fists that he need raise in his own defense. No better at justifying the fit of petty self-righteousness that got him into this, in the first place.
In the end, he doesn't even make it the whole breadth of the stream rushing by below, instead aborting his mission indecisively and stopping with a jerky, unconvincing attempt at a tourist's empty interest. And who's that for? She isn't looking, anyway (or maybe not), with her eyes downcast as he assumes they must be in that defensive pose.
It's hard to steal glances like this, though, and when he lifts his hands to the railing, the knuckles still clenched in his fist hit the edge with a jarring bolt that doesn't help him gather his nerve. He doesn't have any trouble getting into shouting matches with the rest of them (although usually his participation both begins and ends at opening arguments, and is thereafter reduced to a position of crossed arms and one hell of a cold shoulder). But that's different with Tifa, which makes awkwardly resetting their standing to something resembling an even keel different, too.
Though "different" and "uncomfortable" might as well be interchangeable, most of the time.
He looks away from the nothing in the distance he's found to conveniently focus upon long enough to assess her response to the stand-off he's initiated. Maybe he'll get a chance to go through with the initial plan, yet. ]
only five minutes? that's terrible; i'll never beat my record at this rate
Because he isn't any better at this kind of combat, where it's words (however few) instead of swords or fists that he need raise in his own defense. No better at justifying the fit of petty self-righteousness that got him into this, in the first place.
In the end, he doesn't even make it the whole breadth of the stream rushing by below, instead aborting his mission indecisively and stopping with a jerky, unconvincing attempt at a tourist's empty interest. And who's that for? She isn't looking, anyway (or maybe not), with her eyes downcast as he assumes they must be in that defensive pose.
It's hard to steal glances like this, though, and when he lifts his hands to the railing, the knuckles still clenched in his fist hit the edge with a jarring bolt that doesn't help him gather his nerve. He doesn't have any trouble getting into shouting matches with the rest of them (although usually his participation both begins and ends at opening arguments, and is thereafter reduced to a position of crossed arms and one hell of a cold shoulder). But that's different with Tifa, which makes awkwardly resetting their standing to something resembling an even keel different, too.
Though "different" and "uncomfortable" might as well be interchangeable, most of the time.
He looks away from the nothing in the distance he's found to conveniently focus upon long enough to assess her response to the stand-off he's initiated. Maybe he'll get a chance to go through with the initial plan, yet. ]