Tristan didn't think of himself as tragic. He didn't really think of his clothes at all - they were just there, neither fantastic nor particularly bad. At least, no one had really commented on them before. And ... well, they hadn't gotten in his way recently, had they? They couldn't be so very awful. Compared to people who showed up in magazines, perhaps, he was nothing special. But they weren't normal people.
He caught sight of her about half a block away, and sped up a little awkwardly until he was standing in front of her, hands shoved in his pockets, smiling nervously. "Hello," he said, deciding that the best way to go might be pretend as though there were nothing wrong with him. Because there wasn't. Right? "Parvati? I'm Tristan - it's nice to meet you." Surely no one could complain about old jeans and a button-up shirt. It had green stripes. It was one of his favorites.