[ Normally he would throw Tidus a look, a silent message that he should lower his voice, why was he even shouting when he was the only person there...But no, not this time. This time, Roland is just as unapologetic as Tidus, watching him approach, caught up in the whirlwind of his performance, his passion. A dream unfolding before his very eyes. It's almost something he could touch with his own two hands, so strong is Tidus's love for the sport; for the life he has left behind. So eager is his smile, his arms as they wave to an invisible crowd, and Roland's smile is almost melancholic, not once refusing to look away from him.
If only there were more of me to enjoy it, he thinks to himself, as Tidus finally crosses his vision, directly in his line of sight. Roland wishes he could give it to him; the deafening roar of a multitude of voices that he can only imagine existed for Tidus at some point in time. Faceless people who had voices to share, reverberating against water, reaching the players the way Tidus is telling him, describing to him in detail. Roland's heart pounds with a sentiment he isn't quite sure of, but he knows that he is imagining it as if it were real: as if he was in a stadium, cheering on his favorite player. And by all accounts, Tidus was - regardless of time and space. Is, his favorite player.
The moment is the reason you're there, huh? ]
[ In a move that can't be considered anything but strange for someone like stiff and serious Mister President, he grants Tidus a moment. A moment to be, a moment he probably misses the most, even if it won't be the same. He closes his eyes as the youth stands before him, smiles, then inhales deeply, until his chest expands visibly.
Then, he shouts. Or as much shout as he can give, his throat probably doing more of the work than his diaphragm of breath. It's not prolonged, but it is the loudest anyone would ever hear Roland. It's forceful enough to get him to slightly keel forward, one arm darting up in the air; the other, clenching into a fist. ]
Go Tidus, let's do this Zanarkand Abes! You're the man, hit that goal!
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If only there were more of me to enjoy it, he thinks to himself, as Tidus finally crosses his vision, directly in his line of sight. Roland wishes he could give it to him; the deafening roar of a multitude of voices that he can only imagine existed for Tidus at some point in time. Faceless people who had voices to share, reverberating against water, reaching the players the way Tidus is telling him, describing to him in detail. Roland's heart pounds with a sentiment he isn't quite sure of, but he knows that he is imagining it as if it were real: as if he was in a stadium, cheering on his favorite player. And by all accounts, Tidus was - regardless of time and space. Is, his favorite player.
The moment is the reason you're there, huh? ]
[ In a move that can't be considered anything but strange for someone like stiff and serious Mister President, he grants Tidus a moment. A moment to be, a moment he probably misses the most, even if it won't be the same. He closes his eyes as the youth stands before him, smiles, then inhales deeply, until his chest expands visibly.
Then, he shouts. Or as much shout as he can give, his throat probably doing more of the work than his diaphragm of breath. It's not prolonged, but it is the loudest anyone would ever hear Roland. It's forceful enough to get him to slightly keel forward, one arm darting up in the air; the other, clenching into a fist. ]
Go Tidus, let's do this Zanarkand Abes! You're the man, hit that goal!