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Log cast: Tomo, Sephiroth
Log date: 6/18/00 

In the darkness of the temple, two slender fingers are pressed to the
 emerald surface of the glowing crystal and slid down with a very
 deliberate gesture. It's been a few days since Nakago made the 
 mako-enhanced SOLDIER captured within the crystal Tomo's official
 responsibility, and some time still since he ran into the SOLDIER again
 in the courtyard. Knowing full well what he's doing, though not
 entirely certain of the effect upon the 'sleeping' figure himself, the
 illusionist tolerates the pins-and-needles sensation of high magical
 content that the Materia possesses, as well as any impressions that
 filter up through the pads of his fingertips to influence his frame of
 mind. The greenish cast against his deathly white make up is almost
 sickly, as well as the glint created in those distant golden eyes,
 crimson lips stained to black. Drawing his hand back slowly once the
 damage is dealt, the illusionist straightens, watching the figure
 inside for a moment or two longer, then carefully arranging his arms
 over his chest; his eyes wander to the statue of Seiryuu that dominates
 the temple hall, then past to the entranceway, half-expecting a certain
 someone to appear there and at the same time knowing that he won't.
 "Hmm..." is the soft sound, as idle as the hum of a hummingbird's
 wings, and then the smirk, slow and quiet, but as careful as the
 wariness betrayed in his golden eyes.

And off, very far away, a certain man with white hair and eyes that are
 colored the same as that darkened crystal shivers uncontrollably for a
 moment. Goosebumps rise on his skin, and Sephiroth looks towards the
 south and slightly west to where the capitol of Kutou and his real body
 lay. Frowing softly the man none the less just ignores the one he was
 talking to (read: Harassing.) and vanishes to appear on the walkway
 roof before the temple. Why this location? Because he once told Yui
 that if she needed help to touch the crystal and he would arrive.. so
 no point in letting people know there is trouble, right? Anyway, in
 finding silence, Sephiroth hops off the edge of the roof to land on the
 grass outside of the railed section. His feet compress the grass with
 his landing, but he makes little noise. Lowering into a crouch fluidly,
 the fingers of one hand touching the earth, he watches the temple
 doors.. and waits. This is a patient man and so he waits to see if
 anyone will come out and explain.

It takes a few moments, as can be expected, but eventually moonlight
 glints off of the gold of the headdress that could only be worn by
 Tomo, shadows of the temple melting back a moment later to show off the
 ghostly white of his face, the crimson and yellow of his garish attire,
 the liquid amber of his eyes. He walks out, then pauses upon seeing the
 black-and-white figure of the SOLDIER, footsteps coming to an abrupt
 halt. His arms are still crossed over his chest, hands absently tucked
 against his elbows, fingers curled loosely over the back edges of his
 forearms. What was a contemplative expression a moment before relaxes
 into something far more smug, the look of suspicions confirmed and
 rising amusement. "Aa." Past the railing, his eyes find the slightly
 taller figure of the man he's expecting to be there with ease, settling
 there with no small amount of satisfaction to their depths. Arrogant
 prick, isn't he? "Good evening, Sephiroth-san."

Still crouched there, the man is dressed all in black leather... and
 it's that attire you first saw his adult form in. High collar, bare 
 chest, leather covering arms, hands, legs and feet, accented in silver
 here and there with those two huge shoulder pauldrons. The things
 reflect the torches that light this area, glittering a strange
 combination of fire touched silver as well as the pale of his white
 hair where it runs down his back to have the very ends slither about on
 the sweeping cloak of black. One gloved hand dangles between his bent
 knees, the other lightly touching the grass. There he watches as you
 emerge, ignoring your stance and your features to look right into your
 eyes. His own are back lighted all over again and the aura is somewhat
 chill. Not enough to herald one of those killing sprees, but neither is
 it friendly. There is a wariness there. Not so much because he knows
 anything about what you and Nakago agreed, for he doesn't at all, but
 because of the last time you talked. Sephiroth didn't at all feel
 comfortable with the last conversation and that has carried through
 until now. There is no reply from the Soldier and instead he silently
 reads your eyes as his bangs gently sway.

The eyes are remarkably quiet for all the emotion that happens to be
 riding their wearer behind the scenes. It's rather like the opening
 night of a production, taking that first step out into the open and
 preparing to thread the needle that'll begin a greater tapestry of
 deceit. There's a minute edge of wariness, drawing a brown line around
 the amber centers, but otherwise, he's confident and almost languidly 
 so, the look of a serpent who's spent the day bathing in the sun and is
 now left to wonder if he wants to start searching the rocks for mice to
 eat. "Don't look at me like that," the illusionist's voice softly
 intrudes upon the imagery. He stops by the railing, leaning his arms up
 against it, fingers idly lacing together, torchlight bringing out the
 drops of red that emphasize the sharpness of his nails. His tone is
 chiding. There's a smirk on his lips, but then, when ISN'T there a
 smirk there? It's almost his trademark, but the feathers and paint more
 than make up for that. "It's not as if I kicked it or anything."

In one of his stranger moods, the Soldier rises to his feet, pooled
 water rising from the earth in a defiance of gravity and nature,
 leather hushed in sound as it slides over the grass to brush at the
 backs of the man's calves. Two steps bring him forward to the edge of
 that walkway. They are stalking things, the panther come our to play
 gain. Moving quickly, Sephiroth seeks to cover your hands there on the
 railing, the leather of his gloves cooler than they should be if a
 human had been wearing them. It lends a light sense of imcompleteness
 to his form. Something to lend creadance to the fact it isn't quite
 real. Leaning forward, a smirk pulling over his own lips, the man tilts
 his head to one side as lips part. There is a cold glitter to his
 strangely crystaline eyes. Alien eyes. "Then how shall I look at you?"
 he murmurs there, breath brushing against your painted face. "There is
 brown in your eyes, Tomo."

Allowing the touch of cold leather upon his hands, Tomo doesn't flinch
 or otherwise outwardly react. It's also to be put to reason that
 leather isn't a fabric commonly used in garment making except in armour
 and boots, so the slickness of the black material is an unfamiliar
 sensation to pale hands more used to clothing made of silk and woven
 reed. He doesn't shake off the touch, but nor does he encourage it
 further, instead almost seeming as if he were simply tolerating it. "Is
 there?" he asks mildly, head canting to the side ever so slightly,
 those brown-edged eyes still holding the other's mako-green eyes, their
 lucent regard that much more vibrant in the dark and against the ashen 
 shade of the SOLDIER's face. Tomo flicks an eyebrow upward, smirk
 unwavering. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm wondering why you summoned me, Tomo." Is this what he
 really thinks? No. Sephiroth commented before that you only touch the
 things you don't care about, and the last time you talked you patted
 his hair. On the rooftop with the arrow you caressed his face. Now you
 let him grip your hands. It's telling him things and he doesn't much
 like what he reads. On the rooftop the man had briefly thought the
 touch might have been some strange kindness, but he's now talked
 himself out of that possibility. Just to see if you give a reaction,
 those hands over yours begin to tighten. This man can lift a thousand
 pounds if he were to find the need to. Breaking your bones would be
 simplicity itself were he so minded. Thankfully that is not his
 intention, and so the grip will only grow somewhat painful. The aura
 slithers around you, chilling. There is nothing of Jenova in it at all,
 but it should be a good indicator as to Sephiroth's current mood.

"To see if it would work," Tomo answers truthfully. And it IS the truth.
 Of course, it's not the entire truth, but that's a matter of perception
 anyway, isn't it? Sephiroth did say that earlier indeed, but to which
 the illusionist quickly rebuked with the statement that it was women's
 touch that he cared nothing for. Of course, this doesn't mean that the
 grain of truth in the SOLDIER's observation isn't pure. Nor does it
 stop him from pulling on his hands the moment that he feels the
 pressure there, building from the pressured joints and spreading out
 into the surrounding muscles, until a wince finally splashes across the
 illusionist's face. The chill doesn't help much either. Ah, he knew
 this wasn't going to be easy, so he isn't exactly surprised. That
 doesn't make the grip on his hands any less painful though. "Sephiroth-san,
 I really wouldn't appreciate it if you broke my hands," he informs
 the leather-clad figure lowly, just the slightest edge to his voice.

Well, it did work, didn't it. Now what are you going to do with your pet
 that he's arrived at your call? A playful grin spreads over the man's
 lips as you ask admit part of the truth and then actually ask him to
 let your hands go. "You should know by now I only break the things I
 intend to." It's a silky, purring statement, but with it Sephiroth goes
 release your hands. Long digits covered in black leather lift, twisting
 so that the palms are facing you before the man sweeps his arms upwards
 and then outwards in a graceful, if pointless, motion. Hands meet again
 at his abdomen and there the fingers thread together as he steps back a
 pace and then two. Shiny leather gleams in the torch light even as the
 silver on his shoulders reflects. "So, it works. Now what?" He asks,
 eyes partially closing as features arrange themselves into something of
 the emotionless mask you recieved so many times during your first
 talks. The mask that betrays no emotion and yet tells you so much of
 what he is really feeling.

A soft snort as Tomo straightens, taking his own hands back with a
 rueful expression. "Now I'm going to try and work some feeling back
 into my fingers, thank you very much," he informs the leather-clad man
 dryly, the brief crack of knuckles heard as the illusionist tugs on his
 fingers, waking up the irritated joints from their forced sleep.
 Letting his gaze drift away from the emotionless visage presented him,
 the illusionist affects his own change in mood, lips pursing slightly
 before he pouts, adding beneath his breath in a quiet mutter, "If my
 hands bruise from that, I'm not forgiving you for it." Culturally, a
 rather grevious slight, even if Tomo isn't entirely serious about what
 he says, but depending on how much culture that Sephiroth has managed
 to absorb during his time here in Kutou, he may not realize the
 significance of such a statement. Looking like an irrepentant child,
 the painted Shichiseishi seems to all but forget about the other's
 presence for the moment, concentrating on his poor abused hands.

No, Sephiroth doesn't have any clue about the significance of your
 statement. All he can see your petulant child stance, which he finds
 terribly amusing. "Fitting." He chuckles out. Why doesn't he at all
 take it seriously? Mostly because he's jumped on you and nearly torn
 out your throat with his hands and you are still talking to him. What
 the hell is a bruise going to matter at this stage? "However, your game
 isn't one I wish to play today, Tomo." With almost a bounce to his
 step, the lean man turns himself around with his enough speed to make
 his long hair flow out behind him in a wide arc. Not enough to brush
 against you there on the walkway, but just a few inches shy all the
 same. Long snowy strands spreading out as they drift effortlessly over
 the air before settling gracefully down against the leather covered
 back once more. Talk about petulant child... Almost matching your
 additude, Sephiroth starts to move away, beginning that departing fade.
 Better do something fast or he's going to be gone.

Almost tearing out his throat didn't leave any lasting marks except ones
 purely psychological in origin! i.e. It scared the shit out of him, but
 there wasn't any bruises left to tell the tale. Gaze lifting from his
 abused hands as Sephiroth makes his chuckling remark, Tomo frowns a
 bit, still on the sulky side, and straightens, letting his hands fall
 back to his sides. Eyes narrow, then suddenly there's a flicker of
 energy. A moment later, and there's Tomo standing in front of
 Sephiroth, standing straight in path. Of course, it'd be rather easy to
 just sidestep him (though he may mirror the other man's movements, just
 to be impertinant) or fade away completely, but maybe the startle
 tactic of randomly appearing in someone will work to his advantage.
 "Why not?" he demands, but in a quiet tone; golden eyes, still lined in
 that traitorous brown, study the SOLDIER's smoothly sculpted features
 before lifting to peer in his lucent gaze. Then he smirks. "Did I pull
 you from something of remarkable importance?"

One black booted foot comes to rest slightly before the other and the
 man shifts his weight to be evenly distributed, almost presenting you
 with more of his side. However his face is indeed directed at you, and
 crystaline eyes are locked on your own features - most noteably your
 eyes. Yes, there is still that ring of brown, a tell tale sign if ever
 there were one. You are given no smile, no smirk.. nothing beyond milk
 pale skin and a pair of softly glowing green eyes. "Did you pull me
 here for anything of worthwhile importance?" He asks in way of reply,
 voice a caress of sound. Too bad it's still ruined with the chill of
 his aura. Arms hanging at sides, the fingers of one hand fold inwards
 slowly. The leather of his glove creaks quietly with the action, time
 worn to a smooth, perfect fit. He doesn't hold a fist, but instead
 allow his hand to relax. Beyond voice this is the only sound the man
 makes. That white hair seems almost a living thing at the moment, for
 although there is little to no wind, the white length ripples about,
 brushing against silver paundrons silently.

A sign of nervousness, that's what it is. At least in this instance.
 Opening night jitters. Heh. But as is always the case with Tomo, you
 could never tell to watch the rest of him. Arms crossed over his chest,
 he shifts his weight to one foot, the other crossing behind it at the
 ankle, toe touched lightly to the paved ground. "Of course," the
 illusionist tells him confidently. He doesn't even blink when the sound 
 of creased leather touches the air, instead raising a cool eyebrow
 upward, pulling the stretch of black paint with the gesture. Then he
 relaxes the smirk into a smile, though it's still a tad smirkish around
 the edges, littered with dry humour. Only the chill aura has any real
 effect, making the hair at the nape of the Seiryuu Shichiseishi's neck
 stand on end, but of course he's not going to say anything about THAT.
 "To see if you would. Isn't that worthwhile enough?" But Tomo knows
 this game isn't going to last very long. Sephiroth was already walking
 away; he needs to think up something new to keep him here, obviously.
 His head cants to the side, feathers swaying briefly in the same wind
 that catches the slightly taller man's cascade of spun glass hair.
 Granted, not with nearly the same animation, but. "Come now. Certainly
 you can indulge my ill-gotten humour for more than five minutes."

And did you stand before your mirror and practice your lines before
 arriving as well? Sephiroth can still see the ring around your eyes,
 and knows there is still something up here. Hmmm... then again perhaps 
 he is in the mood to play. Hands pull apart as arms partially spread
 and the man shifts his weight back to the rear foot. With this action
 his clothing changes. Melding seamlessly between shiny black leather
 and... black gossamer? A lon, loose sleeved shirt make of transparent
 fabric. It turns his pale skin a dusky hue and has wavy line sof silver
 running down through it. Nope, doesn't hide a thing either. The shirt 
 hangs down to mid thigh and beneath it is a thin belt in red to hold up
 a pir of pants that are slit down the sides, baring flesh from that
 belt over hips and down the outsides of thighs all the way down to the
 calf high suede boots. A thin lacing of silver holds the material in
 place, gleaming with each and every movement. "Are you indulged?" He
 asks, features never having moved even though his stance has come to
 suggest playful.

Oh, you evil bastard. x.x Eyes grow wide, pupils dilating in the
 moonlight as Tomo takes an involuntary step backward. You know, things
 are like this are exceedingly more difficult when you insist on melting
 the poor guy's brain like this. Not that he doesn't deserve it, mind
 you, but. "...." Yeah, that's a good term for it. A slender hand flies
 upward, a faint coughing noise heard as it's smothered by his palm,
 eyes still no less wide than they were a moment ago. No, this
 particularly Seiryuu Shichiseishi wouldn't last two days in Midgar.
 He'd be lucky if he lasted a half hour before passing out in a corner
 somewhere to retain what little mental stability he can still hold to
 his name. "... quite," comes the response finally, after quite a few
 moments of outright staring and the helpless scrambling for ruined
 braincells. His tone, suffice to say, is a wee bit hoarse. Poor Tomo.
 Maybe he'll get lucky and go blind like the elders always told him he
 would if he stared at something he wasn't supposed to.

Evil? Of course he is, and you are playing with fire. So is he for that
 matter, so you are both in over your heads with this whole endeavor.
 Still no reaction shows on features, but Sephiroth remembers something
 he hasn't seen for many years. Something he thought was without any
 kind of merit, and not something he would ever bother doing.. but he
 does it now. Clothe hisses against clothe as Sephiroth moves, a
 whispering of sound to accompany the play of muscles beneath his
 expanse of skin. You step back and he steps forward, every action just
 oozing sexuality. Leaning back slightly, fingers glide up torso, over
 collarbone, and into hair. Fingers thread through the stuff, which
 pours down like milk over his arms to fall over his shoulders. Arms are
 lifted above head to slowly descend down where they slide behind hips
 to be clasped at the small of his back, even as he straightens to his
 full height. Then he stops, eyes heavily lidded and a soft rumbling
 issuing up through his chest to where it reverberates in his throat.

This is Tomo's brain. This is Tomo's brain on crack. *sizzle* No
 difference, right? Well, this is Tomo's brain right now: "...." Any
 questions? Didn't think so. This is completely and totally different
 than anything that the Seiryuu Shichiseishi has ever come up against.
 Sexuality has never been so blatant for him, not in this rural society.
 It's something for closed doors and beneath layers upon layers of
 clothing; for furtive whispers and passing glances. Ask no questions
 and we'll tell you no lies. This is a society where a glimpse of leg
 could be considered indecent, but this... this... ... ... Yes, he's
 staring. You would too, were you in his position. This is knocking the
 ball straight out of his ballpark. He's playing the wrong game. Shit.
 ... Shit. He's supposed to do something now, isn't he? Other than
 stare. Other... than... stare... ... ... ... Yeah, this round is
 definately going to Sephiroth. "... by Seiryuu," is spoken low and
 hoarsely, the illusionist's voice all but raw. His hand has crept down
 from covering his mouth, but hesitate somewhere over his throat,
 fingers curling inward around his collar. Is it just him, or did the
 night suddenly get really, REALLY hot? Chilly intimidating aura? What's
 that? Actor's voice reduced nearly to a croak, Tomo mutters accusingly,
 still staring blankly, "That's not fair."

"What isn't fair, Tomo?" The man asks even as he begins to move again.
 He had waited for you to say something.. anything, patiently holding
 that pose until your brain was able to form a rational thought.
 Sephiroth turns from you arms lifting again, hands flowing over the
 air. Maybe later he will feel mildly disgusted with himself for having
 used the very things that he saw other people attempting to use on him,
 but for now this is damn funny and so he goes through with it. Besides,
 unlike those people he honestly never intends to lay a hand on you. The
 otherday you saw him using Ti Chi. Now he uses it again. The only
 difference is this time it is a dance. Long, graceful limbs moving in
 concert to sound out a song of seduction. One action flows into another
 with supernatural grace, a dusky clade white panther silvered over in
 the moonlight. Isn't this your game, Tomo? The one you said he
 shouldn't play because he doesn't understand the rules? Perhaps he
 understood some aspects of it better than even he knew. Living in
 Midgar does leave a mark, especially in the circles he used to move
 through.

This is indeed his game, but the rules are totally different. Well, not
 totally different, but diverse enough that they've kicked the ground
 out from beneath the illusionist's feet and left him floundering
 weightless in the air. "... this..." The voice that escapes painted
 lips is weak, breathy. Abruptly, he turns away from the dance as it
 begins to unfold, his mouth gone dry, his fingers trembling. The
 movement is sharp, almost violent, and the next moment finds the
 illusionist gripping the railing with one hand while the other is
 reaching to his headdress. An inelegant yank pulls it off, the weight
 of the headdress jerking his hand downward heavily, the feathers
 trailing over the ground. His bangs, set free of the confines of the
 headdress, fall over his brow and eyes in haphazard layers. His other
 hand pulls away from the railing, pushing fingers through his bangs to
 keep them back from his eyes, a shaking breath draw inward slowly. "...
 /this/," he then says with a little more strength, a little more
 certainty, a little more anger to his tone. He hates being aroused so
 easily this way. Sometimes it's fun, but sometimes it can just foul
 everything up. "/This/ isn't fair, you... You... You... dancing around
 half-naked in the middle of the courtyard! I... that... ..." Oooh, you
 make him so mad. >.< "... what are you doing!?" Ooh listen. High note.

Sephiroth stops midpose, arms partially lifted, one foot touching the
 grass only via toe. His hair continues through his his momentum, adding
 one last shivering over the lean body before all action ceases. "Are
 you done being indulged?" He asks ever so quietly, expression just the
 same as it had been before... a white mask accented only in moonlight.
 Slowly arms lower and the man straightens, assuming a far more normal
 posture. Maybe it would be easier to deal with if he were showing some
 kind of emotion, but all you get is a beautiful automaton, posing there
 for you. Well, he was posing at any rate. There is little in the way of
 emotion in his voice as well. Just a soft sound, quiet like it normally
 is. Even lacks the purr. "Or shall I stay a while more?" You did ask
 that he stay after all, so here he is. Aren't you pleased with this,
 Tomo? Then out of no where he says dispassionately, "I've upset you
 again." Well, if that isn't the understatement of the year I don't know
 what is.

What follows then is a bout of absolute silence. Straightening slowly
 from his hunched, shaking posture, Tomo turns his head, his long,
 ragged bangs casting dancing shadows over the painted visage, bringing
 out violence and embarrassment from the ghostly white, fire to the 
 angry golden eyes that flash like two pieces of amber held to the
 light, yellow and red at the same time, blending together to great a
 heated orange with a blue-white fury stoking the coals. Tension
 crackles over the illusionist's form rather audibly, in pops and snaps
 of chi not unlike popcorn held over an open firepit. And then,
 abruptly, he laughs. It's a soundless, weightless, voiceless sound, and
 yet it fills the area as thoroughly as Sephiroth's own aura, trembling
 the illusionist's shoulders and making him bow his head, shaking it
 back and forth in an expression of denial, free ebon tresses swinging
 animatedly with the movement. And when he's done laughing, Tomo
 declares hoarsely, "I am a fool." Does Sephiroth expect him to approach
 him now, after backing away and staring from that safe distance? He
 does, and he does so with a careful confidence that doesn't quite match
 the harsh note that betrays a breaking point in his normally soft,
 hissing voice. He leaves the headdress behind, arranged carefully on
 the pavement; beads of sweat have left barely noticeably trails through
 his make up, nothing blurred, but slightly wettened in the moonlight.
 "A stupid fool," he reaffirms to himself as he approaches slowly. "To
 let you get you to me this way. To... Gods." Only one man has ever
 effected him in this manner, and Nakago would never be so provocative.
 Maybe it's the foreignness about the two powerful beings that intrigues
 him. The dangerous mysteries that he can't quite unravel. Soft-soled
 footsteps stop a stride away from Sephiroth, and it's from there that
 the painted Seiryuu Shichiseishi just ... stares at him. His eyes hard,
 unflinching. As if they meant to bore holes straight through that
 porcelain mask to see whatever lay beyond it.

Approach? No, from all past meetings he thought that you might have
 merely said for him to go away. The anger certainly would have brought
 you to that, wouldn't it? Always has before, but now.. now you do
 something unexpected again. Softly glowing eyes watch the headdress set
 down on stone, the fall of your hair as you shake your head, noting the
 silver amid black, the spark of your chi as it registers on the open
 air. Yes, Sephiroth is very much aware of you, Tomo. Then again he
 always has been. Unlike your flustered countenance, the Soldier is
 pristine there in the moonlight, a creature of otherwordly beauty.
 Etheral, ephemeral, something so nearly human it seems almost wrong if
 just for those slight differences. Eyes of crystal are still showing as
 little as the long face, the narrow features. No, Sephiroth gives away
 little tonight, for it is his design to do so. He waits as you walk
 over, holding perfectly still except for the cascade of his hair as the
 wind touches him. Except for the brush of the transparent clothe over
 his upper body. A statue of white marble that someone decided was
 appropriate to put clothing on. Then you are there, one step away, and
 the man only looks into your eyes, "Yes, Tomo?" He asks quietly.

What an odd picture the Seiryuu Shichiseishi must present. For a man so
 anal retentive about his appearance as Tomo is, to look so out of sorts
 and disarrayed seems rather terribly uncharacteristic. His breathing is
 ragged, betrayed by the unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders. His
 hair, freed with such unforgivable violence from his headdress, is out
 of place, individual strands of obsidian having freed themselves from
 the topknot in some places, his bangs as disorderly as they ever are.
 They fall over his eyes, darkening them to the point that the
 frustration they hold within their depths seems wild, almost
 animalistic. And the heat. His body just radiates with heat, exuding it
 like a second, stagnant aura beneath the first cerulean-tinged one. His
 tongue flicks out, moistening his lips carefully so as not to disturb
 the paint there. All the while, a deep voice speaking low in his mind.
 Break him. Beneath that, an even quieter voice, far more insistant. Far
 more plaintive. Far more difficult to ignore. A slow breath steadies
 the trembling of his shoulders, then a black boot slides across the
 ground another half-step, only that final half left between them unless
 Sephiroth becomes the one to move away first. "You had to make this so
 difficult, didn't you?" he asks bitterly, but there's a thickness to
 his voice, still hoarse, as heady as the vagueness of his thoughts. The
 wind whispers through the SOLDIER's snowy fall of hair, lifting the
 individual strands up to the air weightlessly, so touchable-- and
 suddenly, the illusionist seems to give in to impulse, a hand reaching
 out to touch that hair unless it's taken from arm's reach.

Do you notice at all in your current state that Sephiroth shows none of
 the signs of arousal? You are a furnace of heat while he only radiates
 the moonlight off his already luminous skin. Cool, calm, chest rising
 and lowering in the slow patterns of rest. His voice when he speaks has
 none of your hoarseness. None of your need. What you might not know is
 that his need has always been intellectual. Or at least he's assumed.
 Can he be brought to arousal? Brought to a similar state such as your
 own, panting and needing? Of certainly... but not like this. Not while
 playing a game he doesn't fully understand through a means he's always
 thought of in snide terms. "I thought you wanted something." Your eyes
 had a brown circle, meaning there was a goal. What is it? The man
 hasn't a damn clue. Then you have to go and speak. You reach out to
 touch even as Sephiroth lowers his eyes and looks away. The face bows
 somewhat, leaving vividly colored eyes only visible through the pale of
 his lashes. It is a strange thing seeing someone with white eyelashes,
 and yet Sephiroth has them. Just one more tiny thing that claims him as
 other. It's a thing that isn't obvious, but all the same screams out at
 one that something is unusual. People expect dark around someone's
 eyes. Not the same snowy pale as the hair... you are allowed to touch.
 He makes no effort to move in any way out of the range of your hands,
 simply looks to the grass to the side of you. That hair is just as it
 might appear. Somewhat heavy for the length, but cool and thick, silky
 in texture. He is a feast for all of the senses. Still no expression
 however. The statue has changed position on body, but not face.

That absence of reaction is really what cinches Tomo's frustration and
 bewilderment. How can one exude such sensuality at one moment, then be
 utterly blase in the next? It confuses him to no end. For now, he
 doesn't look to the other's face, especially not his eyes, nor the rest
 of him; his gaze is solely for the lock of hair he now holds in his
 hand, staring at it with such a fierce intensity as if he meant to sear
 it in half with his eyes alone. Silky strands slipping through his
 fingers, as colourless as glass and of as much substance as spun snow.
 He's never seen the like, not with this complete absence of colouring,
 but then, it's becoming more and more obvious with every passing moment
 that he spends in the alien's presence. "Yes," he answers in his low
 tones, still looking at the lock of hair. "I do." His fingers curl very
 slowly around the colourless strands, as if he meant to yank on them
 suddenly and rip them from the other's scalp. He doesn't, of course.
 He's not that suicidal. Instead, he releases the lock again, allowing
 the strands to slip the rest of the way through his fingers until
 they're caught by the breeze, allowed to float freely in the air again.
 "But I don't know how to get it," Tomo finishes up wryly, only now
 looking up to the other man's face. He takes in all the details, all
 the minute changes, all the not-quite-human beauty there, and sighs.
 Some of the tension is relieved from his frame with that sigh, but, of
 course, not all. Enough, though. "You know, that Hojo person was an
 idiot to ever make you keep your hair short," the illusionist states
 ruefully, completely out of the blue, a moment before he turns away
 from the naughtily-garbed figure, intent on walking away just then to
 retrieve his headdress, waiting for him, lone and forgotten, back by
 the railing.

Enough? Relieve enough tension for when you turn around and Sephiroth
 moves? A simple action indeed to reach out and seek to grab a handful
 of your own long hair. Not to touch, not to feel the texture against
 his skin. No, instead it is used as a means to keep you from going any
 further than you already have. Those mako colored eyes are bright now
 as he says in a deathly quiet voice. "He didn't want to have to take
 care of me any more than he had to. My cage was rather small and hair
 grew easily tangled in such confines when one is a child with no where
 to go. He didn't want to have to be bothered with the day to day needs
 of one of his lab animals." Should he be able to hold you, that pale
 form you seem to want so much moves close of it's own volition now.
 Finally no longer a statue and now a predator once more. Sephiroth
 leans in close with his words, breath touching your skin, caressing
 just as his hands aren't. The man's head tilts, lips so very,
 tantalizingly, close, "So.. what is it that you want, Tomo? What am I
 making difficult?" Or are you finding your own game not as amusing as
 you thought it might be? He purrs out all of the words, and near your
 shoulder you can feel the reverberations of that sound as it passes
 through his chest no matter that you aren't touching. Feel as well as
 hear the man.

Of course he gets him. In the arrogance that always betrays him, Tomo
 believed that Sephiroth would simply continue to stand there and stare
 off to the side while the Seiryuu Shichiseishi stormed off to brood.
 The sudden grip on his hair draws out a startled noise from the
 illusionist's lungs, then the golden-eyed man turns about, startlement
 followed quickly by anger flooding into his face once again. All of
 which quickly dies when the sheer proximity of the other man's body in
 relation to his is realized. Oddly enough, none of the physical truly
 dominates his senses. His voice catches in his throat, and his eyes are
 slightly wide, but really, it isn't Sephiroth's voice that he hears. It
 is Nakago's, deep and commanding, slapping him back to reason. "I am
 relying upon you to contain Sephiroth. Moderate his excesses." Eyes
 slowly lifting from lips too close to focus on the mako of the other
 man's gaze, the luminescence that casts a green pallor over what would
 be skin as pale and smooth as milk. Irreverantly, the corner of the
 illusionist's painted lips curls upward. He wants me to contain this?
 he thinks wryly. "By Seiryuu..." comes the oath again, softer than
 before. Softer still are the words that go unspoken. A crystal made of
 magic couldn't even contain him, nor death or this infamous Calamity
 From the Skies. But now it's his task to do just that, a task that he's
 quite willingly accepted. He must be mad. Smiling very, very faintly,
 the humour failing to reach his eyes, Tomo asks quietly, "Do you truly
 not know, or are you just deciding to be an ass about it?"

How does one soothe the savage beast, Tomo? Soothe an angry soul when
 you don't seem to be able to calm your own. It's a good thing Sephiroth
 weren't privy to your thoughts, or there would be more than just this
 going on. "Maybe I want to hear your say it. Say out loud the thing
 your people only whisper of in dark places. That unseen thing here that
 everyone thinks about." Sephiroth isn't facing you, for he had stepped
 with you to be able to remain at your side. Only one step though, for
 if you take others he won't move a second time. However, the hand in
 your hair holds firm. You aren't going anywhere at the moment. Instead
 he wants to be close to your ear, quietly speaking his words more of
 against your throat, lips burshing against the skin every once and a
 while as the words are formed. "I think that's what threw me in the
 beginning. Your people handle things so differently I didn't
 understand. Subtle actions, things seldom done directly... So unlike
 Midgar. A place where people don't hide such things. At all." If you
 aren't fighting him phsyically Sephiroth breaches your phsyical space
 again as he seeks to slide his free arm about your waist so that he can
 pull you against his chest. "Tell me, Tomo."

No fighting the closed physical barriers, but as the white-haired
 SOLDIER's arm encircles his waist, a line of tension shoots up Tomo's
 spine, stiffening muscles and stance, even as his back is molded to the
 other's chest. Trapped. Shit. He's trapped. And for a man who enjoys --
 no, /needs/ -- his control over things as much as Tomo does, the
 feeling is not a pleasant one. He panics. Not in so many words or
 actions, mind you, but with that final breaching of his personal
 defenses is made, his mind becomes an utter blank. Trapped. The lower
 smell of fear rises briefly to entangle itself with the arousal already
 spread over the illusionist's skin like a heady film, tastable in the
 air for just a moment before Tomo squelches it by gritting his teeth
 and closing his eyes. Ah, how easy it would be to just relinquish
 control here and now. He's done it before, to far less worthy
 individuals at that. Nearly at the cost of his own life at least once
 before, so why should this be any different? But that Voice wasn't
 there before. There wasn't a Reason or a Plan before, and there wasn't
 an Ultimate Goal that extended beyond dirty sheets and dirtier bodies
 come morning. Give in now, and it means something worse than loss of
 dignity, something he threw away all too casually in his youth.
 Failure. He'll be a failure. The muscles of his throat tightening to
 swallow beneath the gossamer touch of alien lips, the illusionist
 allows himself another deep breath before turning his head, or at least
 as best he can without risking the hair being torn from his scalp, and
 whispers in a soft, husky tone, "No." A pause, then another curl of his
 lip. "Now we both have something that we want."

Lips glide over your skin every so briefly as the man lifts his head,
 pulling at least that much away from you. Your hair is released gently
 even as the arm about your middle relaxes its hold, allowing you to
 move as you will. "No." It's almost as if Sephiroth repeats the word,
 but just the same his intent is slightly different. Fingers touch the
 back of your head at the point where your hair is bound up to form that
 top knot. That touch slides into your hair, seeking to loosen your
 length of silver touched black, to have it cascade down over him,
 allowing that dark to mingle with white for a time. "What I want is you
 without the stink of fear on your skin." This is sighed out as if all
 concept of passion had left the man. "I want the gold in your eyes to
 show me things you aren't willing to give. Until that time... You will
 never have what you want even as I will never have what I want." You
 have a reason and a plan, but now he has only wants and desires. ...and
 what he desires isn't in your plan. Stepping back from you Sephiroth
 allows your hair to slide out of his hands, watching the long strands
 slide away to reveal the pale of his fingers. His vague warmth leaves
 you, the firmness of his chest against your back, the feel of his
 breath on your ear. Not waiting to gain a reply from you he simply
 allows his body to disperse, and his soul to leave this place. The aura
 you hadn't noticed in so long is now gone. Perhaps the lack is
 noticeable.

The dark-haired illusionist doesn't move in the slightest throughout all
 of this, not even when his hair falls unbound in a weightless cloud of
 black and silver fibers. Golden eyes seem to half-lid again, tracking
 their way back to stare out straight ahead, the muscles of his throat
 tensing again. An audible swallow. But then the warmth is fading from
 his back, and with it the other's presence entirely, leaving him
 inexplicably alone. Eyes blinking to their normal widths, they widen
 and he starts to turn-- "Sephiroth--" But he's already gone, isn't it?
 Tomo's painted mask shows nothing but bewilderment, then surprise as
 his knees unceremoniously give away beneath his weight, bringing him to
 the ground in an ungraceful fall, a quickly placed hand saving what
 little he has left of his dignity and leaving him in an awkward
 kneeling position. The silver-shot black hair, free of its confines,
 falls down over his shoulders and face, puddling on the ground in front
 of him, his painted face bowed low, eyes wide. His body's still
 trembling, the stress and scarcely contained passions of the entire
 situation catching up to him and leaving his muscles feeling as if they
 were made of little more than jelly. Adrenaline. That's what it is.
 Adrenaline, as well as other things. Realizing the position he's in,
 Tomo slowly sits back on his heels, lifting a hand to his face, seeking
 to massage his temples before he realizes he can't without risking
 marring his make up. The sheer idiocy of the scene catches up to him at
 that moment, and with a barely articulate cry, he takes that hand and
 makes it into a fist, slamming the pale knot down against the ground
 hard, as if cursing and blaming it for everything that transpired.