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[ It’s the kind of political commentary to shoot over any sheltered kid's head, Tidus meeting it with a quizzical smile, a matching brow -- not sure of the problem, and not getting the opportunity to ask. Nor his second about disco and is that what this is called?, when the first word not the artist’s name gets said.

Revachol? The same Revachol he's only heard about today? ]

Wait, these are from home? Your home, where you’re from?

[ He’s pointing at the player, as if it’s necessary. As if there will be any other confusion than his own. ]

This ain't. [He pats the edge of player like its a dog, not a beaten-down second-hand relic.] Or if it is, I don't know the brand. Speed's a little wrong, but a reel's a reel, so it'll do for now. I ever manage to save more than booze money, first thing I'm doing is putting a request in for a Harmon Wowshi. [A beat.] Y'know, a boombox.

[He doesn't even wanna think about how much this place would overcharge for something like that, but... he misses blasting things while he's out and about. Here, he wants to relive Revachol's disco history, he's stuck doing it in his pig-pen.]

Back home, I got one for four Reál... which is one less than the cheapest bottle of wine.

[Yep, alcohol's apparently his go-to unit of measurement. Go figure.]

These, though? [He taps the small stack of cylinders beside the player and gives a small, affirmative nod. Smiles in a way that's just a little hopeful.] Why, you like 'em?

It's -- different, [ Tidus offers, in that raised pitch of someone trying to find something amicable and quick to say (and it's exactly that). It is different (and odd), but actually giving it more thought than that can be saved for later. He waves the hand still out. ]

That's not what I'm talking about. Did you find 'em in the city? Where'd you get them? [ Wait. Let him clarify this better: ] There's just stuff from your home here?

[ Is that a thing? ]

[That hopeful smile Harry's wearing winces into something closer to a grimace. Disco... isn't exactly popular in Revachol, either. It hasn't been since the twenties and thirties, back when The New was a thing, and everyone called each other baby. Harry's what you call an 'outdated disco-holdover'. He'd been holding out for the possibility that without all of the historical context, Tidus might actually be able to appreciate it.

"Different" stings a little, okay?

As Tidus tries to clarify, Harry's hand edges over to the player again, thumb sloooowly sliding down on the volume knob sticking out from it. Guillaume le Million's velvet voice creeps ever downwards.]

I mean... sure? [He pulls his hand from the player to reach up and smooth down his facial hair. It's... absolutely a self-conscious gesture.] These babies came with me, but it's not like you don't see any of it on the shelves. [With a soft snort:] Hell, I saw some Man from Hjelmdall merch up in a pawn-shop last week. Pretty sure that drivel's a Revachol original.

[ Harry actually had music on him? Tidus can’t fathom why, but the reason’s unnecessary to ask when he instead thinks: What was he holding before he came here? What could he have right now?

There was Brotherhood, his sword, but he of course he wouldn’t have that; as if the Head would let him keep a weapon. The memory spheres of his father... but he left them on the airship before they went inside Sin. There was no point in bringing them when he was finally going to see his old man for real.

And...it wouldn’t have mattered if he had, or if the Heart would’ve allowed him the sword, would it? He wouldn’t have had them. He couldn't have had them.

He couldn’t even hold Yuna. How could he hold a blade, or even one of his father's memory spheres?

His gaze drops from the player and Harry, hardly listening, but still the words catch in his ears -- in a pawn-shop last week -- enough for him to recognise what Harry is saying. Head snapping up, he speaks without caring about tone, an insistence to it that borders on a plea. Is a plea, hopeful and hoping. ]

Can you show me sometime? The pawn-shop -- can you take me?

[Harry - breaking out of his reverie around disco's heyday - blinks stupidly at what strikes him a sudden, blindingly sincere request. There was a mood change there and he missed it.]

The pawn-shop? [Good old repetition to pad out the time required for his brain to play catch up.] Uh... sure. Yeah, man. No problem.

[His eyes drift over to the phone he left sat on his mess of bed sheets. It strikes him that he has no idea what time it is, and therefore no idea whether or not the place would even be open.]

Sometime after work, maybe?

[He'd suggest before, first thing in the morning, but dragging Tidus around in the midst of some brutal hangover sounds hellish, frankly.]

[ Harry agrees, and for all that Tidus wanted him to, joy doesn’t exactly succeed it, but a feeling akin to a buzzing in his chest, or stomach. Somewhere in there.

But -- what will he find? Anything? Music from Zanarkand? Trinkets, any signs that his home used to once … be. Existed. A life he was ready to forget. ]

Yeah.

[ His reply as lightheaded as the rest of him, Tidus untucks his legs from under himself, a small ache in his calves as his feet meet the ground. There’s a stiffer ache in the rest of him, and it takes a second for his blood to circulate in all the right places, his mind to figure out some string of words. ]

I should get going. I… thanks for this, Harry. Our chat. You, uh… you can tell me what’s a good day for everything. [ His nods his head aside, remembering somehow to lower his voice; remembering maybe a little too late. ] The other thing too.

[ --The feeling, it's ether apprehension or anticipation.

Both similar, but he can't tell which. ]

[It doesn't take much for Harry to put himself in Tidus's shoes, and guess why his tone changed all of the sudden. Not now he's had a moment to think, anyway.

Although he sees his heraldic bird as a cockatoo of all things, a magpie might better represent the man he's become. At least in that he's arrived here having hoarded every piece of shrapnel that struck him as interesting. Tidus likely didn't have the fortune of coming in with a jacket overstuffed with books, reels and useless plastic figurines.

Yet for all he can sympathize on that particular score, he still gets an unpleasant lurch as Tidus announces his departure.

INLAND EMPIRE — He's leaving?

Harry simply stares for a moment, jaw set firmly. Then he nods, because object permanence is a thing and he's an adult and people leave all the time. That's normal.]

Sure. [Casual. Cool. He's not a co-dependent piece of shit.] I'll call you.

[He pushes himself away from the wall and gives a wide, sweeping gesture as he approaches the door. A come on, hop to it.]

You look after yourself, okay?

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