( Noctis lacks the words to explain the situation, to explain exactly what it all is. Luna's warm, too, in her own way - kind and smart and pretty, all the things a prospective queen should be -, and he does care for her, adore her, has spent so much time with her in his life that it's near impossible to figure out who he is without their correspondences, without her presence.
But it doesn't burn, the warmth is nothing more than a blanket - comfortable and familiar -, not the embers that spark when he feels Prompto's lips against his. It isn't the spark of skin against skin that comes when he feels a thumb against his throat, and it's probably all too easy for the other to feel the skip of his pulse, the way it rushes and sticks in his throat, almost like the rush of adrenaline that accompanies battle, but without the aching muscles, without the injury.
With nothing but his heart in danger.
His fingers curl just a little around Prompto's thigh when he hears that noise, unable to stop himself from parting his lips - just a little, like doing too much will be too much (for himself or for Prompto, he doesn't know) - and pressing in just a little more, hand bearing a touch more weight onto the other's thigh when he leans in, warm-turning-hot, skin probably flushed red with everything, despite the cool air that lingers around them, the lack of fire to provide any warmth.
The body next to him provides all the warmth he needs, has done for longer than Noctis realises. Just a faint, little fire in the base of his spine that eventually grew too large to ignore. )
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But it doesn't burn, the warmth is nothing more than a blanket - comfortable and familiar -, not the embers that spark when he feels Prompto's lips against his. It isn't the spark of skin against skin that comes when he feels a thumb against his throat, and it's probably all too easy for the other to feel the skip of his pulse, the way it rushes and sticks in his throat, almost like the rush of adrenaline that accompanies battle, but without the aching muscles, without the injury.
With nothing but his heart in danger.
His fingers curl just a little around Prompto's thigh when he hears that noise, unable to stop himself from parting his lips - just a little, like doing too much will be too much (for himself or for Prompto, he doesn't know) - and pressing in just a little more, hand bearing a touch more weight onto the other's thigh when he leans in, warm-turning-hot, skin probably flushed red with everything, despite the cool air that lingers around them, the lack of fire to provide any warmth.
The body next to him provides all the warmth he needs, has done for longer than Noctis realises. Just a faint, little fire in the base of his spine that eventually grew too large to ignore. )