070. Band

Well, this seemed a little ironic, Aerith noted, fingers fumbling nervously inside the pocket of the coat she wore. Almost like a step backwards, and into the role of someone else.

There were probably a good thousand things better than this to give Reno for the occasion, but to Aerith, it was the only thing that seemed appropriate for the day it was, this, the mark of one year since their unholy union at the Gold Saucer's undoubtedly seediest chapel. She'd reached quite an extreme when she'd branded her own skin with the devotion of pain and permanence -- a replication of the mark that he'd graced her with over a year before in strokes of innocent pigment, and for something as trivial as Valentine's Day. However, she often surprised herself with her impulsive ideas and lack of rationale. Not even she knew just how far it would get, and she'd neglected to retain the sense to regret any of it. Her husband, the man she'd only refer to as such on this single day of the year, had offered helpful, if inadvertent lessons in that department, solidifying her developing appreciation for the pleasures of instant gratification. If it felt like a good thing to do, she would do it, as simply as that.

But this was different than her peculiar flavor of normalcy, even mildly conventional, which in itself was an unconventional thing for such a strange woman to do. It was slightly self-serving to a degree, she'd admit to herself guiltily, but not without her own twist of humor and distinct signature that she knew he'd survey.

Casually, she presented it to him, drawn from her pocket, the small box in the center of her palm.

Then came that inevitable disclaimer.

"You don't have to wear it. Just for today. For me. But I want you to keep it. Well, until you need to pawn it in the disastrous event that your drug stash gets dangerously low. I made sure to go with titanium, so you'll get a good chunk of cash for it."

Half of a grin painted her lips, as she was only half kidding. The ring, a plain wedding band, solid and simple, had been chosen with careful discrimination, painstakingly measured to fit his finger, and influenced by her quirky take on practicality. Such as hocking it in the event of a narcotics shortage crisis. If she got to see it on him once, the single telltale mark that this solitary aspect of his life - her title - belonged to her, she'd freeze frame it for memory and let it tide her over for another three hundred and sixty four days.

Sixty-five, she mentally corrected. Leap year. Of course. God was spiting her.

"Though you might lose about fifty bucks in value for that inscription on the inside," she piped up again. "I highly doubt there's a whole lotta Tigers and Snack Cakes runnin' around. Unless I missed another baby name trend."

What sadistic bastards for parents those would be.