[Something hits a dial tone in his head. It blocks even the reception of thought, of feeling. Or maybe it's something like standing up too fast and passing out for a second, except instead of his brain shutting off, it's his heart.
One second he's on the step, mug on his knee, and the next he's on his feet, warm cocoa splashed over his hands, mug gripped so tight in his hands, if he were stronger, he would have broken it. There's no lapse of seconds in between, none that he can recall. There's just him, Ignis, both of their shapes against the backdrop of the door, no interior, no distant background, no depth to perceive or color theory, just lines, geometry, nonsensical.
They're going to ask for his life.]
What?
[At least one of the words has ceased to be decipherable. His life? His what? His life? Whose, Noct's? Noct's what, now? The jittering of the mug in his hands is the only thing to stir him, to catch his attention and ground him in this spot, this half-foot of ground in which he stands. He stares down at the mug half-empty before he hastily puts it down, yanks his hands to his sides, stares at Ignis like he's the one pin anchoring the world to one place.
It takes a moment for Prompto's mouth to remember how to form words, stumbling through the process three silent times before he finds sound again.]
No. [A child's word, simple denial.] No! That's not--they what? They want his... [It doesn't make sense. It can't make sense. The world's reeling around him because, really, Prompto's world--like Ignis's, like Gladio's--is Noct. He struggles to swallow breath down, plants his feet firmly against the earth, and says with every fiber in him:] No.
[No. No, no, no. Prompto meets Ignis's eyes and they're steady, steady as his fists beside him.]
no subject
One second he's on the step, mug on his knee, and the next he's on his feet, warm cocoa splashed over his hands, mug gripped so tight in his hands, if he were stronger, he would have broken it. There's no lapse of seconds in between, none that he can recall. There's just him, Ignis, both of their shapes against the backdrop of the door, no interior, no distant background, no depth to perceive or color theory, just lines, geometry, nonsensical.
They're going to ask for his life.]
What?
[At least one of the words has ceased to be decipherable. His life? His what? His life? Whose, Noct's? Noct's what, now? The jittering of the mug in his hands is the only thing to stir him, to catch his attention and ground him in this spot, this half-foot of ground in which he stands. He stares down at the mug half-empty before he hastily puts it down, yanks his hands to his sides, stares at Ignis like he's the one pin anchoring the world to one place.
It takes a moment for Prompto's mouth to remember how to form words, stumbling through the process three silent times before he finds sound again.]
No. [A child's word, simple denial.] No! That's not--they what? They want his... [It doesn't make sense. It can't make sense. The world's reeling around him because, really, Prompto's world--like Ignis's, like Gladio's--is Noct. He struggles to swallow breath down, plants his feet firmly against the earth, and says with every fiber in him:] No.
[No. No, no, no. Prompto meets Ignis's eyes and they're steady, steady as his fists beside him.]
They can't.
[They can't do that. They can't have him.]