Tidus’s back meets the wall easy with how close it is, the fabric of his jacket stopping an elbow scraping against concrete, leaving only a slight sting.

It’s inconsequential; what matters is the second where he questions if to let his defences go (let the guy at him, he deserves it) or to meet him just as hard (treat him as a replacement for what he didn’t get to stop). Yet his body answers for him, a fist coming to hit somewhere around Squall’s cheek or upper chest, wherever it manages to land.

Might as well keep giving the guy a reason to make him want to hurt.