He hadn't honestly put a lot of thought at all into who outside these walls might be trusted with something like this. If Angeal did take the opportunity to refuse, then chances were astronomically high he'd simply see to the matter himself instead of looking for anyone else. Elidibus had certainly been kind, but what would all the red do to his pristine white robes? And was he the sort of person Sephiroth really could trust to be handed a knife, and then turn his back?
Almost certainly, except doubts and fears have a way of insidiously undermining everything, and he trusted slowly if at all.
Slowly, he shakes out the blanket he'd picked as a sacrifice and sets it on the floor, then settles on it sitting on his knees, as comfortable that way as any other way of sitting around. He's not really thinking it over, not weighing whether or not the thousands-year-old ancient Emissary might be better suited, he'd made his choice when he didn't leave the house in search of aid. The problem was he didn't want to upset anybody with what he knew would be as unpleasant for them as for him. What if their calm was an act as much as his was? What if Angeal was as afraid of what was happening to him, as Sephiroth was?
Maybe worse. He can't see what's happening, he can only feel it. "..No, I know he would." But it wasn't really an option. "....If you're agreeable then it's fine." It isn't but he was going to ignore that until it was no longer an issue.
He'd been careful since these changes began to keep everything he could utterly hidden as so many others did, gloves and boots and high collars and concealing overcoats, and though it's necessary he's reluctant to shed that covering. He doesn't have to see what's surely going to be disgust, at least, as he finally carefully sets the jacket aside and works with unsteady fingers to hook a claw under the stolen belts and work on unbuckling them. There's no mirrors here. Though he'd gotten away with sparse scales on his face and throat, the same can't be said for his back or shoulders, the scales there heavy and considerably thicker than the delicate fish-scale like ones elsewhere, only a ghost shade of green in otherwise matte black marked by more vivid green splotches edged in gray, high up between his shoulder blades and a bit at the base of his neck similarly dark short, rounded feathers immediately fluffed uselessly against the cold. He'd need to get his hair trimmed soon, it's getting long in the back, almost enough to touch those little feathers. And the problem, the long, wide distended shapes beneath his skin, folded from shoulder to hip, back up and then back down, peeling hide and scale off the muscle below it without ever managing to break through with a muffled wet sound, what skin can be seen through the pattern of scales mottled dark with trapped bleeding. They can be made out, in a vague sense, to look something like flattened arms in their shape, the slide of them under skin something that looks vaguely fingerlike but on a far larger scale.
And it is very, very hard to hold still. Nothing makes it harder than knowing he shouldn't, knowing it will hurt if he does, and the long misshapen digits under the skin of his shoulders twitch visibly like some barely restrained impulse to clench a hand that isn't a hand. He's probably been losing sleep longer than a single night.
no subject
Almost certainly, except doubts and fears have a way of insidiously undermining everything, and he trusted slowly if at all.
Slowly, he shakes out the blanket he'd picked as a sacrifice and sets it on the floor, then settles on it sitting on his knees, as comfortable that way as any other way of sitting around. He's not really thinking it over, not weighing whether or not the thousands-year-old ancient Emissary might be better suited, he'd made his choice when he didn't leave the house in search of aid. The problem was he didn't want to upset anybody with what he knew would be as unpleasant for them as for him. What if their calm was an act as much as his was? What if Angeal was as afraid of what was happening to him, as Sephiroth was?
Maybe worse. He can't see what's happening, he can only feel it. "..No, I know he would." But it wasn't really an option. "....If you're agreeable then it's fine." It isn't but he was going to ignore that until it was no longer an issue.
He'd been careful since these changes began to keep everything he could utterly hidden as so many others did, gloves and boots and high collars and concealing overcoats, and though it's necessary he's reluctant to shed that covering. He doesn't have to see what's surely going to be disgust, at least, as he finally carefully sets the jacket aside and works with unsteady fingers to hook a claw under the stolen belts and work on unbuckling them. There's no mirrors here. Though he'd gotten away with sparse scales on his face and throat, the same can't be said for his back or shoulders, the scales there heavy and considerably thicker than the delicate fish-scale like ones elsewhere, only a ghost shade of green in otherwise matte black marked by more vivid green splotches edged in gray, high up between his shoulder blades and a bit at the base of his neck similarly dark short, rounded feathers immediately fluffed uselessly against the cold. He'd need to get his hair trimmed soon, it's getting long in the back, almost enough to touch those little feathers. And the problem, the long, wide distended shapes beneath his skin, folded from shoulder to hip, back up and then back down, peeling hide and scale off the muscle below it without ever managing to break through with a muffled wet sound, what skin can be seen through the pattern of scales mottled dark with trapped bleeding. They can be made out, in a vague sense, to look something like flattened arms in their shape, the slide of them under skin something that looks vaguely fingerlike but on a far larger scale.
And it is very, very hard to hold still. Nothing makes it harder than knowing he shouldn't, knowing it will hurt if he does, and the long misshapen digits under the skin of his shoulders twitch visibly like some barely restrained impulse to clench a hand that isn't a hand. He's probably been losing sleep longer than a single night.