theleadingman | avalon: inbox

I needed time.

[She responds simply. Time to adjust. Time to accept. Time to get her feelings in order.]

And it would be better for me to meet her without you being there. I want to see her with my own eyes. I want to see what kind of person she is.

[Taking her teacup back into her hands, Aerith indulges in a long drink with a sigh. After a moment's thought, she straightens up. And then—]

—Oh, shit. I forgot to ask you if you wanted anything in your tea. Do you want sugar or anything? I've never asked you how you take it.

[She sets her teacup down and turns to cross over to the other side of her kitchen where her cabinets are. Aerith lifts her hands, finding the only downside is so many of the shelves are a good deal taller than her. Which means most of the time she has to hoist herself up onto the counter to get a good look at inventory.]

Uhm... Sugar. Spices, if you like that kind of thing...

Just milk, please.

[He watches her with interest as she turns her back, his gaze narrowing. A genuine concern, perhaps, but it had also been a sudden change of topic. Was she stalling? Looking to avoid answering him more thoroughly? Perhaps not, but the answer she had given him strikes him as just strange enough that he continues to pursue it.]

You needed time.

[There's a note of consideration in his voice as he echoes her. What did that mean?

He tests the waters just a bit more, having released his teacup for the time being.]

I didn't realize meeting a friend was such an occasion.

That's what I said.

[Didn't he hear her the first time?

Just like that she helps herself back down, shuts the cabinets, and goes searching through her refrigerator before she eventually emerges with milk, which she sets down gently in front of him.]

She's not just a friend, Balthier. She's obviously very important to you. It's a little bit of a nerve-racking situation to be in, meeting someone like her. I have to worry about how I come off, what she thinks of me, how I measure up. I don't expect you to understand and I'm not asking you to.

[Aerith shakes her head at him as she reaches for her teacup again.]

I said what I said. I needed time to prepare myself for it.

[He'd certainly heard her, and he hears her explanation just as clearly, but can't help himself from feeling stuck on it.

The timing of everything hardly seems to be an accident, though it's possible he's overthinking things. Aerith had warned him early on that she would always do what she thought was right, and that he might not like that— so perhaps it was only coincidence, something that had been inevitable all along, but her explanation only makes him that much more suspicious.]

Thank you.

[He gives a polite nod when she sets the milk down in front of him, his expression still thoughtful as he dutifully pours a bit into his tea.]

I'd like to understand— that's all, regardless of whether or not you need me to.

[Shake your head all you like, Aerith, but he's stuck on this one.]

But no, you're quite right, she's not just a friend. Family would be more apt. I suppose pressure in such a situation is to be... expected. I hardly have a wealth of experience in this area.

[That would require letting any entanglement last more than a single night.]

Really?

[Aerith's eyebrows knit together as she assesses him. But then, it is Balthier. He isn't the greatest when he comes to feelings, but it's not like she has any room to talk there. Something, something stones and glass houses. For whatever reason, she can't help herself any maybe, for once, that's a good thing.]

That's all you're calling her?

[She waits until he's done with pouring his milk before she puts it back in the refrigerator.]

Rarely does one talk about a woman like she's a goddess and just define her as 'family.' You should just tell her you love her, Balthier. But if she's as familiar with you as it sounds, she probably already knows.

[Returning to her tea, Aerith seems anything but accusatory. If anything, she seems startlingly genuine. Balthier practically glowed when he spoke of Fran. There's no way that's family. You don't just glow when you're speaking of family. 'Family' is an understatement when it comes to her.]

It's hardly a dismissive term.

[His own brow furrows once more. All he's calling her? Considering what he'd left behind, the great pains he went to in order to build a new life for himself— he can't claim the credit for that transformation all on his own. He'd have gotten nowhere fast without Fran; he owes her a great many debts, but what they are to one another as partners can only be described as—

Wait a moment.

To him, the idea is so unfathomable that it doesn't even quite register when she first says it. The easy neutrality of her tone certainly doesn't help, either; she seems to be offering him what she believes to be genuine advice, only it's entirely wrong for the situation at hand.]

Did you think—

[He cuts himself off, backtracks. Clearly she did, and if he considers the perspective of someone who had never known them as a set, he supposes he can see where certain remarks may have been misinterpreted.

He pinches at the bridge of his nose for a moment, closing his eyes.]

I don't love her— not the way you're thinking.

[He sounds, quite frankly, incredulous. To say he didn't love Fran at all would be a disservice to his partner and, quite plainly, untrue, for what else could one call such a bond, but it's not what it might seem from the outside.

Gods, she was jealous.]

We're partners. That encompasses a great deal, but not romance.

[Aerith studies him. The immediate array of expressions that fall over his face would be almost comical in any other situation. They're almost comical in the current one, honestly. Except Aerith's not laughing. She's simply trying to parse fact from fiction and it's probably not the first time she's done that in his company. Pretty face or not, it's foolish to believe everything he says without question of some kind.

By the time he gets to the end of it, she isn't sure what to think, really. She doesn't believe him. She isn't sure what he could even say that would convince her to. And it's not as if what she even thinks over the matter actually makes a difference. She knows he's a stubborn as she is. There's no reason he would be any more willing to discuss his feelings for someone than she would be.]

Ifffff you say so.

[Is about all she can think to immediately address that with a she tries and fails to down herself in the remnants of her cup of tea.

Yeah. There's no way that's not the case. He's old-fashioned and outdated. He's not going to speak so radiantly about just anyone without some deeper feelings being involved. He's at least admitted that he loves Fran. He claims not romantic, but...

Well. It's not like he'd admit it to her anyway whether he did it or didn't. That'd be a bad impression to make, considering what they've done.]

[He laughs instead; a short, incredulous, humorless thing as she dismisses him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that compared to everything she shared and the complexity of her own situation, this should mean little— it should be an inconsequential thing, and yet it isn't.

Setting the record straight suddenly feels imperative.]

You don't believe me.

[It's not a question, though he does raise a brow as he makes his observation.

Leaving his tea, he braces both hands against the island and pushes himself to his feet, and for the second time this evening, proceeds to circle around to the other side— this time with slow, measured, deliberate steps.]

I've near as many secrets as you, but if you think that I would be dishonest with you in this, you are sorely mistaken— or do you really think me the kind of man who would involve myself with another were my heart otherwise spoken for?

It doesn't matter if I believe you or not. What I think about this doesn't make a difference.

[Because they didn't make any agreements. They didn't discuss anything they were or were not. Aerith's made very certain to avoid that conversation. Like most conversations she doesn't have an interest in holding.

Her gaze moves from his tea into him when he rises, though she thinks very little of it. The kinds of things that frighten her where he's concerned tend to be the ones that she nips relatively quickly in the bud.

Usually.

He makes mention of his heart, not for the first time since he's been in her presence. A thing she tried to gloss over. A heart can represent many things, she knows. It's love, a sense of belonging, stability, safety, sometimes even simply affection where one has not had it much before.

She isn't arrogant enough to assume his feelings regarding her (yet is evidently enough so that she can draw conclusion between him and Fran). And frankly, that's a conversation that terrifies her.

The kettle water remaining isn't even warm by this point. It doesn't stop Aerith from using it as a distraction to refill her cup.]

I'm not judging you. You don't need to justify or defend yourself, Balthier. I was only making an observation.

[That she can remain so calm while dismissing him is nothing short of infuriating, more so after weeks of questioning agony and frustration, of trying to see the situation from every angle to use what little information he did have to piece some sort of answer together, concerned about her well-being all the while.]

It matters to me.

[What she thinks of him, the sort of person she believes him to be, matters a great deal, in fact— he'd thought that much must be obvious, but once again, it's clear he was mistaken.

He firmly takes the kettle from her and sets it aside, robbing her of her distraction.]

You're usually quite perceptive, but in this, it's remarkable to me that you can't see the truth. You're so opposed to seeing it, in fact, that I believe you're inventing your own.

[It would make sense, wouldn't it? Something to soften the blow for herself, if need be— she's been quick to tell her what he can and can't say to her, but once again, he thinks he's through listening.

He reaches to prop a hand against the island, after carefully moving her teacup out of the way, leaning in as he bodily blocks her path.]

I thought I'd made my stance quite clear earlier, but apparently, I haven't been plain enough.

[She... isn't really sure what she's more perplexed by. She's provoked him again, though she's been nothing but diplomatic since he invited himself against her wishes. In retrospect, she's been extremely tolerant and she is aware that it's because it's him. Once again, it's not something she'd permit if it were anyone else.

He takes her kettle and she watches him for some moments warily. He's onto her. The teacup follows and it occurs to her that she doesn't have anything to fiddle with except her own garb.

His words flutter in and out of her ears. An assessment of her personality. An understanding to things she refused to tell him. Whatever it is that Balthier means to speak plainly about. Certainly, because he is very likely to tell her precisely how he feels about things.]

I wasn't trying to make you angry.

[Her hands press to counter top as she considers methods of escape. Not necessarily from him, but from anywhere she thinks this conversation might be going. He doesn't give her much room to manoeuvre, however, and in the end, she ends up fiddling with the simple bow of extremely simple ensemble.]

I'm not going to fight with you. Not about this. Not about anything else.

I'm not angry.

[It does, admittedly, sound rather ridiculous with the hard edge his voice has taken on; there's a firmness to it that he often lacks, though he doesn't go quite so far as to raise his voice. Rather, he's incredibly even in everything he does, his every word and movement quite deliberate.

He's not angry. He's frustrated, but more than that, he's determined.]

Nor do I want to fight. I only intend to set things straight.

[Clearly, she has the wrong idea about certain things, and whatever happens after tonight, he'll not have her believing in something that is blatantly untrue. His brows knit together as he takes a step closer, his gaze moving over the spot where she fiddles with the bow of her dress before he puts an arm around her waist, bracing another hand against her hip before hoisting her upwards.]

My heart is spoken for, but not by my partner.

[And if that wasn't clear enough, he sets her against the edge of the kitchen sink so that he can step forward, her knees on either side of his hips as he takes hold of her face and pulls her into an insistent kiss, forceful without quite managing to cross the line into demanding— not yet, though between the heat and the hard press of lips and the tightening of his grip against her waist, there's a great deal more emotion behind it than he's allowing himself to show, none of it soft.]

[You could have fooled me.

She isn't demanding an explanation. Doesn't want one. Possibly because a part of her already knows. There's likely more than a little sliver of truth in his earlier observation. Not so much that she's developed a different version of the truth. What she heard in him is what she believed, not something she constructed out of nothing. But there's an idea that his attention being else where provides a good excuse for why they ought not to be spending their time together.

In some way, it was an escape. Keyword being 'was,' because as she expected to happen eventually, Balthier's caught on. More quickly than she anticipated, honestly. She's underestimated him. Hasn't been the first time she's done that either.]

Balthier—

[She just barely gets his name out while he's curling hold about her before he rests her against the edge of the sink. Maybe protesting wouldn't have changed anything. He draws her face to his easily enough, pressing upon her a kiss she doesn't know how to define. He's kissed her in a plethora of ways, but not like this one.

It still feels like anger, but maybe she has no idea what anger really is. It takes very little thought for her fingertips to spread and splay against his chest, fighting the temptation to grip and clutch. It shouldn't affect her the way that it does. Yet it does anyway. Tifa's words linger in her head. Talks of memories. The own confessions she's finally managed to say. Not to the person who needs or deserves to hear them, of course, but the point is that she's said them at all.

That makes them more tangible and real. More frightening and disconcerting.

He hasn't given her much in the way to withdraw from, so as she's trying to gather herself, she lingers near to him, the subtle throb of her heart and the shuddering of her breath. Her voice rests on the cusp of hushed and muted, betraying her uncertainty in tandem with all of the parts of her that hold affection for him.]

—I told you...

[They can't be doing this. He can't be saying things like that. Except apparently they very well can and he very well can, too.]

[She had told him.

"Think it all you want, feel it all you want, but you can't say it to me. I can't hear it. I can't listen to it."

It's a request he can't bring himself to honor, at least not tonight. Not when there was every chance that if she has her way, they were about to part ways for good— we're not going to make a habit of this, she'd said— with her not fully understanding the truth of the situation. He can't force anything to change, can't keep her from going right back to pushing him away if she's still determined to do so, but he can insist on the truth.]

We can.

[She hadn't needed to repeat herself to know what was coming next, and he refutes her protest without pause, barely pulling away long enough to do so before he claims another kiss. It has none of the desperation from earlier, but instead, frustration has become a simmering heat within him.

They can, even if it's only for right now. Even if it's only long enough for her to get her to understand him.]

I love you. You are the one who makes me weak.

[Just as she'd said for him— he makes her want to say 'yes' to everything, to concede where he would not have dared before. His words are low and murmured against the curve of her mouth between kisses, though he doesn't demand another one just yet.]

Push me away all you want. That won't change— and even if you shut and lock that door behind me when I go, I refuse to leave you believing in a lie.

[Even for as much as she'd like to say she knows him, she finds just another side to the man that she doesn't know. How many different Balthiers are there? Likely as many as there are Aeriths. How many times will she see this one? She supposes that depends on how often she intends to let them see one another.

If she had it her way, she'd see him every day. Wouldn't it be nice if she made a habit out of curling up against him every night? Out of waking him with kisses to the shoulder, the length of his neck every morning? Thought in tandem with action leaves her scarcely flushed. The close proximity. The weight of his words, the want in them, both things pressed upon her. The way that a kiss, perhaps any kiss from him, can leave her near aching for breath.

At his confession, brazen and bold as it is, encourages her to assess him. To really assess him as an individual. He... loves her? Affection she could hazard a guess. But... love? He clearly must to use the word. But what has she done to be worthy of that? What has she been?

How conflicted it leaves her. Overjoyed and terrified. Morose and delighted.

It's a test of discipline that she doesn't just take another kiss from him. She merely teases, though that in and of itself doesn't seem intentional. Brushing her lips against the corner of his mouth seems to be purely for her own benefit.]

You haven't exactly given me much possibility to push you away.

[Not when he holds her like so. Not when she fears he'll feel or hear the race of her heart. Not when she thinks she can't hide how he affects her.]

Edited (Fixing typos :[) 2021-11-23 06:38 (UTC)

[He closes his eyes as she speaks against the corner of his lips, his own breath catching as his fingers curl just a bit tighter against her waist.]

I wouldn't stop you, if you wanted to.

[He'll never take anything from her that she isn't willing to give, and if she wanted him to stop, to step away, he surely would. It would hurt, to have her turn him away with that sort of finality, but if she wanted to, he would find some way to force himself to accept it, or so he tries to tell himself. But she doesn't want to— that was precisely the problem with all of this, wasn't it?

Neither one of them wants for them to be apart, for this to be over. It's because Aerith believes it to be the right thing to do— or perhaps more precisely, she needs things to be this way, or so he's beginning to think.

He exhales softly, some of the rigidity leaving his shoulders, and he turns his head so that his brow grazes against her temple, his lips still dangerously close to hers.]

That's the trouble, isn't it. You don't want to.

[Not once has Aerith told him what she wanted. What she didn't want. In fact, she's avoided saying anything about her wants. Likely deliberate. It was never about wants, after all. A want and a need are two very different things, after all, though at times they may hold hands with one another.

Just hearing his breath catch threatens a shudder to play at the small of her back, where she just force it to stay. Her hands tighten their hold, press in against him, for no other reason that she simply wants them to.]

Don't ask me things like that.

[There's no force behind it. It's more pleading, honestly. She doesn't handle speaking about those kinds of feelings particularly well. Wants are complicated. Everything about her is already difficult enough. Why add to it?

It's with an exceeding slow and leisurely pace that she eventually turns her head in favour of her lips finding his bottom in a startlingly brief kiss.]

It was never about what I wanted. What I didn't want.

[It's such a small thing, that kiss, and yet it speaks volumes. It's the first display tonight that he hasn't initiated, and though one might argue that the situation has coaxed it from her, he knows full well she wouldn't have given it at all if she didn't want to.

Even if this isn't about wants, as she says, it eases his heart some to know that it's there— even if, in turn, it makes what's to come that much more difficult. He would rather know the truth of her heart than not, just as he'd insisted on her knowing his own.

His hold eases, his hand moving to the small of her to rest there.]

No, it isn't, is it.

[There's a strange note in his voice that feels foreign, even to him— something dangerously close to resignation.

Perhaps it truly will have to be enough, just to know.]

You've never talked about what you want. Not until tonight.

[She'd told him that she wanted him to stay forever. If he hadn't believed it in full then, he certainly does now.]

[...She's not getting out of this, is she? Once more she thinks to Tifa, how it all just kind of poured out of her. All of her worries and concerns. All of her feelings. If there was any kind of judgement, Aerith didn't take notice of it, though that's forever a lingering concern. In the end, she had conceded. Not particularly persuaded by this, that, or the other thing, but given in simply because she felt like she was foolish. It was embarrassing. Not quite humiliating, but getting there.

She settles her forehead to Balthier's and simply thinks. About the very current situation, which is very distracting. How she's gotten to this point. How she could have avoided everything in between had she not said anything. She still agrees that she never should have said a word. Let everyone believe what they want. In that respect, living a lie is better than not doing so.]

I'm... not good at talking about things like that. It's not an excuse. That's just the way it is.

[Her touch upon him loosens and blindly, hands raise until she can just scarcely brush her thumbs along his jaw line. Despite his own frustration, she's still soft. Almost painfully so.]

Just because I'm not saying it doesn't mean it's not there.

[Aerith looses a sigh as she shakes her head, feeling something very similar to surrender stewing about in her.]

It sounds like you want to hear all about that. I might need a little more convincing to speak up.

[She knows when her words are looser. She knows it's a thing she can use to her advantage. Being close to him, Aerith feels all of it so much more intensely. Repeatedly, her resolve has been tested, thrown against perceptions that aren't hers. Without a doubt she feels battered. Fighting with Balthier, disagreeing with Tifa's perspective, these aren't the places for her energy and time to go. Not when there are more... solid threats.]

[That, he can hardly begrudge her— though he had been direct now, in this moment, it was hardly an easy thing for him, either. It was a challenge, to talk openly about things that were raw and uncertain, unfamiliar, but pushed to his breaking point, it had managed to come forth.

For her, he'd rather a different method. Rather than push, perhaps it can be coaxed out, instead. She reaches for him and her touch is soft, compassionate, and he feels yet more of the tension leave him, some of that frustration dissipating, the press of her brow against his a warm and solid reminder that he hadn't imagined what was between them to be more than it was. It was real, and remains so, regardless of complications.

He exhales slowly in response, the arm around her waist tugging her just a bit closer to him so that she's nearly flush against his middle, and it only takes a very slight turn of his head to press his lips softly against her jawline— just once, but he remembers quite clearly what such things stirred in her, in both of them, even if it's been some time.]

I'll remind you I can be quite convincing.

[And though he does, indeed, want to hear her thoughts at length, he can certainly wait, if it means there are other forms of expression that might serve them better in the moment.]

[It's ridiculous. A lot of what she's said has centred around this idea of wanting to forget what it was like to be around him. In any matter of the word. 'Move forward,' she's said, which is completely stupid in retrospect. She can't go back and pretend that nothing happened between them. Even if she could, would she want to?

No.

That thought is solidified when he draws her just close enough that she can easily recall exactly what it's like to be pressed along him. To thread her fingers between his. Every sliver of affection that's exchanged between the two of them. None of these things are easily put aside, despite whatever Aerith's said implying the contrary. He draws her breath from her easily enough. It's always the neck. The very first time he lingered there, she couldn't forget it.]

I haven't forgotten.

[And she hasn't. He is very convincing when he wants to be. She's known that all along. It wouldn't take a lot of effort on his part to have her be so agreeable with him. His words about weakness remain with her. He must be hers, too. She's with him in ways that she isn't with others. Ways that she can't be with others. Not so dissimilar from how an Aerith in Tifa's company is different from an Aerith in Balthier's, in Nanaki's, in Cloud's, in anyone else's. There's a different side to Aerith that everyone sees, originating from the same core woman.]

I told Tifa...

[She begins quietly, feeling those nerves curl up along her. If she says any of this, she can never take it back. It will always be there regardless of whatever happens in the future. However long or short that future may be. Whether she should or shouldn't remember these very moments or the impact that Balthier and others have had on her life. If she says these things, she has to be willing to accept that.

She must be willing to own those sentiments.

If neither of us will remember this, then why should it matter so much?

Because they aren't just words. They're real, weighted things. The bittersweet joy that she has in his presence is real and tangible. A memory or not, a falsified one, a temporary one, none of that makes a difference. It doesn't make it any less real.

She draws back just enough that she can eye him in that way that is so earnest with so little to hide behind. Aerith studies him, her hold shifting to wordlessly admire his features with the touch of her fingertips. The pad of her thumb as it drapes over jaw, along the shell of his ear, carefully over a dangling earring.]

I don't want to go back to Midgar because I would rather be with you. I've wanted to be with you all along.

[Is that love? Surely in some way, it must be. That's a four-letter word that scares her, but she suspects it must be lingering in her somewhere.]

[He meets her gaze as she pulls back, studying her, his touch at the small of her back and the nape of her neck having softened considerably as he summons up patience, a willingness to listen and let her take what time she needs to piece her thoughts together, find the words. He can't help but offer her a flicker of a smile as her thumb moves along his jaw, his ear, gently pulls against his earring— somber as this moment has the potential to be, he has ached for her gentle and attentive brand of affection for weeks now.

He's missed this. In the greater scheme of things, their time together had been quite short— but what did that matter, when there was no time to be wasted? It doesn't make him feel any less strongly about it, about her.

"I've wanted to be with you all along."

His smile blooms just a touch wider, reserved and cautious, but no less real for it. It doesn't change the complexity of her situation, perhaps— but it's no less thrilling to hear, no less reassuring.

He'd known, but it was a different thing entirely to hear her say it for herself.]

I've wanted the same.

[Would he go back to Ivalice now, if offered the choice? In practice, such a decision wouldn't be so easy, but he knows where his heart wants to be now, in this moment, and his hand moves to the side of her neck so that his thumb can brush against the soft line of her jaw, dangerously close to the corner of her mouth.]

It's an unnerving feeling. [But not bad. Not unwelcome.] I'm— not used to it. I'm willing to wager you aren't, either.

[And regardless of pre-existing complications, that has to have had a hand in things. Feelings of that magnitude had the potential to be, quite frankly, terrifying— but decidedly less so in such excellent company.]

[She's gathered as much. Aerith didn't really know his feelings. She had... suspicions. And she had inklings. She had ideas. She isn't sure how she feels having them placed out so nicely in front of her. In much the way that she can't put away her own words, she can't put away his either. He has a right to his feelings and she must not belittle them or treat them with any less respect than they deserve. They are kind, soft, gentle things. Fragile.

As fragile as he is, though she suspects he wouldn't like it much if she described him like that.

She very pointedly draws her gaze aside when his touch shifts. He's already set her heart to pounding, but somehow he always makes it beat just a tad faster by doing the smallest things.]

Not... really.

[She replies quietly, once more finding herself revisiting the notion of Zack. The only reason things didn't proceed between them, she's sure, is because of what befell him. If he were still alive today, wouldn't they have ended up together? Aerith has no way of knowing that. She could sense him back home, but it's not as if it's answered so many of her questions. She knows he's waiting for her, however, and she knows that one day, they'll meet again.

Who knows when or what the circumstances will be at that point.

How do her feelings for Balthier compare to those she had, and continues to have, for Zack? Simply put, that's incomparable.]

I don't want you to feel that I expect anything out of you. I don't. I was afraid if I said something, it might be too much. For you. For me. I didn't want it to affect any decisions we might have to make. All I could do was try to reassure you. I always knew how I felt. I didn't realise that... I underestimated the time we spent together. Things I thought were so innocent.

[But no. They've danced around one another for quite some time, haven't they.]

I may have underestimated too, at first.

[He can certainly understand such a thing happening, and quite easily. He wasn't generally in the practice of sharing much of himself with anyone, with very few exceptions— there had been no way of knowing just how quickly things would escalate, but even if he could, he wouldn't undo it now. Not for anything.

There's still the matter of expectations, however, and the very thought makes his heart heavy. Certainly there will be decisions to be made in the not-so-distant future. He wishes he could say the same, that he doesn't expect anything, but he knows that he can't. He's selfish. If they want the same thing, then he cannot in good conscience bring himself to walk away from that, for whatever reason might be given.

His lips pull into a thin line, somber as his brow remains against hers, his thumb moving along the arc of her cheek as he pulls his other hand forward to gently rest against the curve of her hip, still pressed almost impossibly close.]

I don't think pretending it isn't there does either of us any good.

[No doubt they both could have done without the pain of the last few weeks, though he understands her point of view better now, sympathizes as best he can despite his own patience having worn thin.]

You don't always have to worry so much about what's right. For once, let something be about what you want. Even if it feels like a bit too much. I think it would feel less so, shared between us.

[He's right, of course. He's as right as Tifa was. Maybe in a way, Aerith was right as well. What works for some does not necessarily work for others. She's gone about it all wrong, however, forcing him into what she wanted out of him instead of allowing him to live as he ought to have. She'd intended to free him of her and all she did was try to control him.

She's never really noticed it as much as she does after speaking with them both. As she'd told Tifa, if she was the only one who thought differently, then maybe it was she who needed to reassess what she was doing, and why. In the end, it still comes down to selfish behaviour and a lack of courage. It doesn't matter that her intentions weren't malicious. Intent rarely has anything to do with it.]

I want to say that I'll do that, but I know I can't make a promise like that.

[She admits, softening at the very contact of his thumb pressing over the height of her cheek. She doubts she'd be even half as willing to make a remote step in that direction were it not for the hold he has on her, or the close proximity. She is just as weak to him, she finds.

I don't know how good I can be at pretending that I feel fine with all of this.

But she has to try. She has to try. He's still here. So is she. She owes that to him.]

I'll do my best, Balthier. [For you, and for Tifa.] Maybe... you should tell me what you want.

[Out of her.]

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