( from what he's heard about luna – the way noct talks about here – she's nothing but warmth. the sort that eases tension, smooths away roughened edges as though they'd never been there in the first place, with kind words and a soft voice and an even softer touch. any man would have been lucky, gifted to find themselves in her presence, a single thread woven into a life that encompassed so much more, and … and yet.
here noct is, with him, with their collective little fires burning all the brighter the longer they stay connected, and now that he's been allowed this close – allowed this level of contact – he doesn't think he's likely to let go of it so easily, even when he knows what it means for their future. there has always been some sort of … something shifting and shuffling and rolling around in the back of his mind that he's been trying to ignore since that first day of high school, when he'd finally worked up the nerve to speak to him again after so long, after working himself up to being the kind of person that noct deserved to have as a friend.
( because he deserved the best. still does. of that, prompto remains convinced. )
when noct's lips part, when the weight of the hand against his thigh presses in just a little more, when the beat of his pulse beneath his fingertips skips a little higher – he's convinced he's dreaming, that this can't possibly be real, because there's an ache in his chest that reminds him of just how long he's been ignoring it in favor of anything else, distractions that always fall short and leaving him still wanting, skipping through the photos he's taken that all somehow have managed to catch his prince in varying states of sass and still somehow endearing, the curve of a mouth now pressed against his own something far more genuine than anything else he's ever seen in the whole of his short life.
those lips part, and the tip of his tongue brushes shyly, gently, almost-not against his bottom lip, feeling the way his body wants to press in closer all on its own, finding himself scooting in and closing some of the distance that exists between them. fingers stay pressed against the tap-tap-tap of his pulse, a reminder that he isn't dreaming, that this is real and so is he, and whatever he's done up to now to deserve the other's closeness, his kisses, his warmth –
maybe, he thinks, he hadn't needed to try so hard to be something he deserves. )
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here noct is, with him, with their collective little fires burning all the brighter the longer they stay connected, and now that he's been allowed this close – allowed this level of contact – he doesn't think he's likely to let go of it so easily, even when he knows what it means for their future. there has always been some sort of … something shifting and shuffling and rolling around in the back of his mind that he's been trying to ignore since that first day of high school, when he'd finally worked up the nerve to speak to him again after so long, after working himself up to being the kind of person that noct deserved to have as a friend.
( because he deserved the best. still does. of that, prompto remains convinced. )
when noct's lips part, when the weight of the hand against his thigh presses in just a little more, when the beat of his pulse beneath his fingertips skips a little higher – he's convinced he's dreaming, that this can't possibly be real, because there's an ache in his chest that reminds him of just how long he's been ignoring it in favor of anything else, distractions that always fall short and leaving him still wanting, skipping through the photos he's taken that all somehow have managed to catch his prince in varying states of sass and still somehow endearing, the curve of a mouth now pressed against his own something far more genuine than anything else he's ever seen in the whole of his short life.
those lips part, and the tip of his tongue brushes shyly, gently, almost-not against his bottom lip, feeling the way his body wants to press in closer all on its own, finding himself scooting in and closing some of the distance that exists between them. fingers stay pressed against the tap-tap-tap of his pulse, a reminder that he isn't dreaming, that this is real and so is he, and whatever he's done up to now to deserve the other's closeness, his kisses, his warmth –
maybe, he thinks, he hadn't needed to try so hard to be something he deserves. )