[Sephiroth attends only via invite, and it is clear that his presence is one born out of a strange, distant politeness rather than any enthusiasm for participation. He does not mind the overall concept of a concert, nor the music which highlights the surprisingly keen talent of a man he had only known through shared pigeon-hunting motivations. But he is, at his core, a wallflower, more likely to hang back and observe the crowd—maybe after picking at the food and drink—than to join any passing group. This is fine, of course. He does not mind it; the activity swirling around him does keep his mind busy with curious observations, even if he has no intention to fling himself into the festivities.
He does buy a flower at some point, which somehow rests in his hair, wild and bright. It is a single blossom, but prominent and noticeable, only procured because— well, isn’t that the point? To shore up money for a restoration effort? How it ended up in his hair is a mystery; but one might assume that a bold, enlivened stranger thought it was fitting for the stoic-looking man. Or maybe you did it. It’s just as likely. If you stare, he only gives you an even glance back, daring you to say something on the matter.
As for dancing… Well, he seems to draw a line there:]
I don’t dance.
[Take that as you will.
Later in the evening, he tracks the magical birds that flutter overhead with his eyes, gaze narrowing suspiciously. Memories of ridiculous pigeon-napping shenanigans flash before his eyes, and he frowns, waving one away that has, of course, landed right on his shoulder.]
ota!
He does buy a flower at some point, which somehow rests in his hair, wild and bright. It is a single blossom, but prominent and noticeable, only procured because— well, isn’t that the point? To shore up money for a restoration effort? How it ended up in his hair is a mystery; but one might assume that a bold, enlivened stranger thought it was fitting for the stoic-looking man. Or maybe you did it. It’s just as likely. If you stare, he only gives you an even glance back, daring you to say something on the matter.
As for dancing… Well, he seems to draw a line there:]
I don’t dance.
[Take that as you will.
Later in the evening, he tracks the magical birds that flutter overhead with his eyes, gaze narrowing suspiciously. Memories of ridiculous pigeon-napping shenanigans flash before his eyes, and he frowns, waving one away that has, of course, landed right on his shoulder.]
No. Not again.