"No." As if the spoken refusal couldn't possibly be enough to get her feelings across, Selphie wrinkles her nose and thrusts the heels of her hands downward.
It makes her look like a particularly excitable moomba, Irvine thinks - but, for a mercy, doesn't say aloud.
What he does say is, "Quistis asked specifically for you."
Her flat stare tells him all he needs to know about how well she believes him.
"Quisty - " (here, she enunciates very carefully,) " - asked me - to be the one - to tap dance."
The tap shoes tumble to the floor.
"I don't know how to tap dance, Irvine Kinneas."
"Last time—" he begins, trying not to recoil at the use of his full name.
Selphie interjects heartily, "Last time, it was Zell!"
"Yeah, well, he wrecked the shoes. Selphie, darling—"
She glares at him, and he recants his statement, silence stretching between them as he considers. She looks like a lioness right now - not like the snow beasts that make large parts of Trabia uninhabitable, and not like Squall's Griever. No, she looks like the sleek, basking beasts from Matron's old story books, that tell tales of a lush jungle that used to be where the Centran craters now reside. She looks proud, even puffed up in irritation as she is, radiating healthy anger like a sunburst glow, and like she might want to rip him apart with her bare hands...
But - he decided this long ago - that's half the fun of Selphie, when she shines like the sun.
He wraps his arms around her, lets his lips touch her forehead. She slackens in the embrace; her stiff, pouting gait loosening somewhat under his hands.
tap tap tap, selphie/irvine, no warnings.
It makes her look like a particularly excitable moomba, Irvine thinks - but, for a mercy, doesn't say aloud.
What he does say is, "Quistis asked specifically for you."
Her flat stare tells him all he needs to know about how well she believes him.
"Quisty - " (here, she enunciates very carefully,) " - asked me - to be the one - to tap dance."
The tap shoes tumble to the floor.
"I don't know how to tap dance, Irvine Kinneas."
"Last time—" he begins, trying not to recoil at the use of his full name.
Selphie interjects heartily, "Last time, it was Zell!"
"Yeah, well, he wrecked the shoes. Selphie, darling—"
She glares at him, and he recants his statement, silence stretching between them as he considers. She looks like a lioness right now - not like the snow beasts that make large parts of Trabia uninhabitable, and not like Squall's Griever. No, she looks like the sleek, basking beasts from Matron's old story books, that tell tales of a lush jungle that used to be where the Centran craters now reside. She looks proud, even puffed up in irritation as she is, radiating healthy anger like a sunburst glow, and like she might want to rip him apart with her bare hands...
But - he decided this long ago - that's half the fun of Selphie, when she shines like the sun.
He wraps his arms around her, lets his lips touch her forehead. She slackens in the embrace; her stiff, pouting gait loosening somewhat under his hands.
He tries one more time. "Please?"
"No."
"Okay."