One day he'll figure out a decent way to differentiate between the two. Seph is already taken, after all, but nothing else about his name seems to lend itself nicely to nicknames. That leaves other ideas, of course, but, well. Those have hit a dead end too.
They're also, ultimately, not important. Not compared to the uneasy way that Sephiroth seems to shift, that subtle look on his face... and then the confession.
It says a lot, about the kind of life he's been dealt and made to live, that he already has an inkling of just what Sephiroth is about to ask him simply from the first sentence. From the idea of shirts being no longer easy to wear. Yet even knowing that, and having the time to brace himself for the end result, his stomach still twists almost painfully when he hears about it.
When that knife is held out.
Hand almost steady. But only almost.
Angeal breathes in deep through his nose, and forces his lungs to work with him as he forces his own hand to reach out. "So you think a skinning knife is enough to get through scale?" he asks, glancing down at it. Surely it doesn't feel that easy. It was built for other creatures. Not - them. Or, rather, not scales from dragons. "Well. We can see how it goes." Another steadying breath.
Sephiroth is asking him to do this. And it is not... to get rid of them. To ruin them. In his mind, he can recall being trapped in a mirror, and watching his worst impulses be allowed to run rampant, a dark doppleganger.
How it had frantically torn at white feathers, leaving behind a bloody and sagging mess attached to his back, before going off to find something that could do the job far better.
This is nothing like that. This is - practicality. Simple practicality, to do the healthy thing. To get struggling wings out, like how sometimes you had to help a chocobo chick poke through its shell before it suffocated. He can do that much, can't he? For Sephiroth?
"...We should do this somewhere that won't make it so noticeable so much blood will be spilled too. Even if it ends up neat as can be, I don't think that a completely clean job is possible. Did you have a preference?"
no subject
They're also, ultimately, not important. Not compared to the uneasy way that Sephiroth seems to shift, that subtle look on his face... and then the confession.
It says a lot, about the kind of life he's been dealt and made to live, that he already has an inkling of just what Sephiroth is about to ask him simply from the first sentence. From the idea of shirts being no longer easy to wear. Yet even knowing that, and having the time to brace himself for the end result, his stomach still twists almost painfully when he hears about it.
When that knife is held out.
Hand almost steady. But only almost.
Angeal breathes in deep through his nose, and forces his lungs to work with him as he forces his own hand to reach out. "So you think a skinning knife is enough to get through scale?" he asks, glancing down at it. Surely it doesn't feel that easy. It was built for other creatures. Not - them. Or, rather, not scales from dragons. "Well. We can see how it goes." Another steadying breath.
Sephiroth is asking him to do this. And it is not... to get rid of them. To ruin them. In his mind, he can recall being trapped in a mirror, and watching his worst impulses be allowed to run rampant, a dark doppleganger.
How it had frantically torn at white feathers, leaving behind a bloody and sagging mess attached to his back, before going off to find something that could do the job far better.
This is nothing like that. This is - practicality. Simple practicality, to do the healthy thing. To get struggling wings out, like how sometimes you had to help a chocobo chick poke through its shell before it suffocated. He can do that much, can't he? For Sephiroth?
"...We should do this somewhere that won't make it so noticeable so much blood will be spilled too. Even if it ends up neat as can be, I don't think that a completely clean job is possible. Did you have a preference?"