[It's somewhere in the little things about the way they cling together — the way Prompto leans in to inhale him the way a starving man leans into a bowl of hot stew, and the brush of the tip of his nose against his shirt, and the way he just sort of fits up against him — that something sturdy in Ignis seems to shake loose, a fastening or two rattling free and coming undone, rendering his control imperfect and his collectedness fractured. It's not gone completely; no, the pieces are still there, still forming a reasonably admirable guard, but there are holes in it now, little breaches with jagged edges, and before he quite realizes it he's ducking his chin to press his face against the top of Prompto's head, burying a single, shaky breath in his hair.]
I was so worried about you.
[Prompto thinks he's different. Prompto doesn't think he's as important. Prompto thinks he's expendable, the extra piece, the odd man out.
Ignis doesn't live for Prompto's smile the way that he does for Noct's. He's just acutely, painfully aware of how much darker the world is without it.]
A brief moment of sentimentality. You won't tell, will you...?
no subject
I was so worried about you.
[Prompto thinks he's different. Prompto doesn't think he's as important. Prompto thinks he's expendable, the extra piece, the odd man out.
Ignis doesn't live for Prompto's smile the way that he does for Noct's. He's just acutely, painfully aware of how much darker the world is without it.]
A brief moment of sentimentality. You won't tell, will you...?