(no subject)

[cloakandclaw]

It isn't often that he spends a lot of time in this room. In the grand scheme of things, it's just another room at just another inn. There's little in it that makes it his, particularly, except the key that opens the door: there's a bed and a chair and a bureau and a lamp and a mirror and a window with a curtain. The bedside table is the only thing that shows any sign of the place being occupied: a small collection of flowers graces it, and there's an odd sort of order to them. The larger flowers are grouped toward the back; the smaller ones lead up to them, as it were. Every time he's outside he brings in a new one and sets it there, and when the old ones start to wilt and brown, he recycles them by bringing them back outside and offering them to the lake, the trees, the forest floor.

This... is his small shrine to Lucrecia. She's never far from his thoughts, but this serves as a reminder to her beauty, her softness, her constant presence in his life. He happens to be tending the shrine when a knock at his door disturbs him; with an early buttercup held gently between his armored thumb and forefinger, he gets to his feet and moves swiftly to the door.

It could be any number of people, but he suspects it's Tifa. She's the only one he's invited to knock at his door; no one else is friend enough to have earned that right. There's no surprise when it does prove to be her; opening the door, he ushers her in.

"Are we tending bar again?"