Gloves
Sometimes Cloud thinks he still feels someone else beneath his skin. Some days, the memory of being piloted haunts him, and the spectral sense of his hands moving to fulfill another's purpose won't abate. On days like that, watching the tendons of his fingers flex, he can imagine they belong to someone else. An action as simple as grasping a sword conjures the lingering echo of another's grip wrapping around the hilt...or around someone's neck. His friends can tease him all they like about the hefty armgear, but he wears that leather and metal to armor his sense of self.
