( Royalty. Prince. Impending King. There's so much attached to these things, so much weight and duty, but no one ever really talks about the little fact that it's all laid out. You don't get to choose much, if anything, in your life. Day one to now, it's all given to you, everything is set out to make you a leader, no matter who you might be. And though Noctis gets his freedom, got shipped off to school instead of locked up with tutors, made to work, allowed to play-
He's destined to marry Luna, destined to rule a country. There's no room for feelings in these things, no room to want more than he's given. He doesn't get to think, never tried to explore any of it, not when everything's set out before him. When things will always be that way.
But it's when you say that can't be, this is impossible, that the impossible happens, isn't it? Thinking about this is ill-advised, heartache and distraction waiting to happen, but it's so easy to forget anything but those freckles and the flutter of lashes, the soft touch of Prompto's hair when his hand shifts, runs through those layers. Nothing else matters but the gentle press of his weight when Prompto relaxes into the touch, nothing but slowly running a hand through blond hair and gently resting it at the back of his head.
Things light up when his eyes slide shut, spark through him with the same sort of uncontrollable heat that lights up when he absorbs fire energy, bright and sunlike.
Just like the boy whose thigh lies warm and firm under his hand. )
no subject
He's destined to marry Luna, destined to rule a country. There's no room for feelings in these things, no room to want more than he's given. He doesn't get to think, never tried to explore any of it, not when everything's set out before him. When things will always be that way.
But it's when you say that can't be, this is impossible, that the impossible happens, isn't it? Thinking about this is ill-advised, heartache and distraction waiting to happen, but it's so easy to forget anything but those freckles and the flutter of lashes, the soft touch of Prompto's hair when his hand shifts, runs through those layers. Nothing else matters but the gentle press of his weight when Prompto relaxes into the touch, nothing but slowly running a hand through blond hair and gently resting it at the back of his head.
Things light up when his eyes slide shut, spark through him with the same sort of uncontrollable heat that lights up when he absorbs fire energy, bright and sunlike.
Just like the boy whose thigh lies warm and firm under his hand. )