[It crosses her mind, almost absently, that in a movie or a storybook or something else with a heavy emphasis on visuals, this would be one of those moments where she'd launch herself into the air off of the stairwell, and his arms would be waiting, and she'd fall gracefully down and be caught in them and he'd swing her around with the greatest of ease. And really, she's almost half-tempted to indulge that idea, stupid as it is. She could cast her flight spell on herself and it would all work out. She could make it happen.
But somehow, thinking about it, she comes to the exhausted realization that for all that she's crafted her reality around her persona of being a witch, this is actually one of the few rare times when she doesn't have to be that, either. No magic, no theatrics, no gaudy displays of power.
She stands up on her own two feet, and gets her legs under her, and descends until she's able to take his hands and let him guide her down the rest of the way.]
...We'll figure it out?
[When they get home, she means. He'll take her home like he promised and they'll sit and they'll figure it out.
What she's really asking, probably, is is it going to be okay, and looking to him in the hopes that he'll supply her with a yes.]
[Where Prompto guides her is the rest of the way to his chest, so he can wrap his arms around her and just hold her. So they can fit together again. That much hasn't changed. That's still the same. He breathes out, like a sparking wire's finally taped over once more. For now, they're safe.]
Yeah. A little later. I, I promised Iggy I'd help make dinner. [After a pause, Prompto shifts his hold so he can take more of Summer's weight against him. At the same time, he reaches up to smooth his hand down her hair. His eyes are closed, but he knows beneath his fingers, it's a dull, autumn brown. Homey. Like home. He inhales again, long and shaky like air is something new to him, and expels it with another promise.] We're going to make enough for all of us.
[What he's saying should be obvious. Breathing's starting to come more naturally now as he strokes Summer's hair. They're going back home.]
It's--I don't know if you'd have it where you're from. It's like, bird meat and egg mixed up over rice. It's good, I promise. Way tastier than I just made it sound.
[She's littler than him. Not tiny or anything, but just smaller enough that Prompto notices, every time. He rests his nose in her hair, then, light as a petal, touches his lips to the top of her head.]
Just come home now, where it's warm. When you're ready.
[I want to go home, she remembers thinking night after night, when she'd slept in caves and on sand and atop cots made of hay, when the six of them had been swept away from everything they'd once known and there was no telling when if ever they were ever going to see it again. I want to go home, she remembers repeating as she'd bit down on her sleeve and sobbed after another day of getting nowhere and another new set of horrors burned into her memory. She'd told herself it would be worth it, everything she did and had done, once she made it home. She'd figure it out, once she was home. She'd make her peace once she was home.
Then she'd been scarred, defeated. Then she'd been traded away to the wizard in exchange for the life she'd fought so hard to preserve, and watched as Nick and the others had returned to the one place she'd been trying to get to all along. Watched as they got the one thing she'd wanted. Watched them earn the thing the wizard had specifically denied her, expressly to taunt and to hurt.
Nick never came back. No one ever came back. And then it was more living, more enduring. With the wizard she couldn't even cry at night, lest he overhear and gain the satisfaction that his pressure was making her crack at last.
But now, somehow, she's stumbled into this. Hands that seek out hers. Arms that gather her in, a nose that brushes the top of her head and lips that press kisses against her hair. A voice that tells her to come home, and that it's okay if she can't make it alone; he'll carry her there.
Just come home, Prompto says, and it's like something jars loose that had been lodged inside her before — an ugly, wretched sob of her own that she crushes against his chest to try to stifle the sound of it.
Home.
He'll take her home.
It's okay. They can figure it out. They'll figure it out when they're home.
Because when Prompto holds out his hands, home isn't that distant faraway star that it had always been in Nevermorrow, that impossible dream to chase. Home isn't the relief at the end of a neverending endurance run, not the inspiration and justification for whatever needs to be done to get there.
Home is right here, already here, and he'll take her to it whether she's able to get there on her own or not.
But for a little while yet, she just cries against his shirt, and babbles I'm sorry until the words don't even sound like words anymore, and lets the world shrink down to nothing but the arms around her and the warm breath in her hair and the catharsis that comes from weeping and knowing that there's still gentle affection waiting on the other side for her when it's done.]
[It's okay bubbles out of him, helpless counterpoint--not because it is okay, but because the only way Prompto can imagine going on right now is to make it okay, for Summer. Everything she did is still done. They'll have to talk about it. Even he knows that.
But right now, she's crying in his arms. For him, even. And there's something he has to say, to make sure Summer knows before they go anywhere else, physically or conversationally. She has to know it the second he does, and that's right. Now.]
I love you, too.
[It's the second-absolute-worst time to say it, he realizes. But the first-worst time was when she did, after taking his color and leaving him unable to respond on any level, so fair's fair. It makes it a lot less fairy-tale, in any case.
Prompto holds Summer tight both to steady her and to keep himself grounded, drive the both of them solidly down into this moment. This is the realest he's ever been. They'll ever be.
Saying it to Ignis was different. That was stating a fact that's been true for years, and getting to tease him, too, a little bit. This--telling Summer--is making a decision. Realizing that fact, putting it into action. Prompto's placing his bruised heart in her hands with all the vulnerability she bared by stepping, slight thing that she is, into his arms. Like a light, feathered thing with hollow bones. That's all either of them is, sometimes.
He feels tall and protective and small all at once, holding her here on the stairs. Something inside him is shaking.
Maybe it's the friendless little boy he saw in the mirror.]
I want to say that now. So. S-so much.
Edited (Wait I can make that better) 2018-12-02 03:13 (UTC)
[She says, muffled, like a person who doesn't mean it in the slightest. But affection is always easier when it's unilateral, because when she's the one giving it, she's also the one controlling it. She's not nearly as adept at knowing how to receive it, which is awfully paradoxical considering it's also often the one thing she craves more than anything else.]
You're stupid and dumb and your face is dumb.
[But her sadness is melting away because of it, dissolving the way that sadness is supposed to in a moment like this — not the gripping inescapable weight that it had been for him in the forest but something more transient, something that goes and comes like a brushfire, rapid and devastating but quickly burning out.
There's a damp spot on his shirt, which is her fault. Which means it's already destined for a wash anyway, so she feels less bad about rubbing her face against his chest to dry her eyes a little further before drawing back just enough to look up at him.]
...And I'm stupid and dumb too so I guess we're meant for each other.
[Crap, she's looking at him. He blinks back the brightness in his own eyes and puts on another smile for her, since the first one'd been such a hit. He catches part of his lip in his teeth, but then he bites it a little, and, in wryness at them, at this situation, it comes out all the more genuine. He really meant it. He really means it, when it comes to Summer.]
I dunno. I always thought you're really smart.
[He lets a beat pass, waiting for that little-kid wobbliness to get the hell out of his voice, then adds:]
Guess that just means I'm that much stupider and dumber, huh? C'mon.
[He leans backwards a little, just shifting his weight back on his heels, not even letting her go.]
Let's get off the stairs. Then I can carry you. I-it'd be really stupid and dumb to fall down the stairs.
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no subject
But somehow, thinking about it, she comes to the exhausted realization that for all that she's crafted her reality around her persona of being a witch, this is actually one of the few rare times when she doesn't have to be that, either. No magic, no theatrics, no gaudy displays of power.
She stands up on her own two feet, and gets her legs under her, and descends until she's able to take his hands and let him guide her down the rest of the way.]
...We'll figure it out?
[When they get home, she means. He'll take her home like he promised and they'll sit and they'll figure it out.
What she's really asking, probably, is is it going to be okay, and looking to him in the hopes that he'll supply her with a yes.]
no subject
Yeah. A little later. I, I promised Iggy I'd help make dinner. [After a pause, Prompto shifts his hold so he can take more of Summer's weight against him. At the same time, he reaches up to smooth his hand down her hair. His eyes are closed, but he knows beneath his fingers, it's a dull, autumn brown. Homey. Like home. He inhales again, long and shaky like air is something new to him, and expels it with another promise.] We're going to make enough for all of us.
[What he's saying should be obvious. Breathing's starting to come more naturally now as he strokes Summer's hair. They're going back home.]
It's--I don't know if you'd have it where you're from. It's like, bird meat and egg mixed up over rice. It's good, I promise. Way tastier than I just made it sound.
[She's littler than him. Not tiny or anything, but just smaller enough that Prompto notices, every time. He rests his nose in her hair, then, light as a petal, touches his lips to the top of her head.]
Just come home now, where it's warm. When you're ready.
no subject
Then she'd been scarred, defeated. Then she'd been traded away to the wizard in exchange for the life she'd fought so hard to preserve, and watched as Nick and the others had returned to the one place she'd been trying to get to all along. Watched as they got the one thing she'd wanted. Watched them earn the thing the wizard had specifically denied her, expressly to taunt and to hurt.
Nick never came back. No one ever came back. And then it was more living, more enduring. With the wizard she couldn't even cry at night, lest he overhear and gain the satisfaction that his pressure was making her crack at last.
But now, somehow, she's stumbled into this. Hands that seek out hers. Arms that gather her in, a nose that brushes the top of her head and lips that press kisses against her hair. A voice that tells her to come home, and that it's okay if she can't make it alone; he'll carry her there.
Just come home, Prompto says, and it's like something jars loose that had been lodged inside her before — an ugly, wretched sob of her own that she crushes against his chest to try to stifle the sound of it.
Home.
He'll take her home.
It's okay. They can figure it out. They'll figure it out when they're home.
Because when Prompto holds out his hands, home isn't that distant faraway star that it had always been in Nevermorrow, that impossible dream to chase. Home isn't the relief at the end of a neverending endurance run, not the inspiration and justification for whatever needs to be done to get there.
Home is right here, already here, and he'll take her to it whether she's able to get there on her own or not.
But for a little while yet, she just cries against his shirt, and babbles I'm sorry until the words don't even sound like words anymore, and lets the world shrink down to nothing but the arms around her and the warm breath in her hair and the catharsis that comes from weeping and knowing that there's still gentle affection waiting on the other side for her when it's done.]
no subject
But right now, she's crying in his arms. For him, even. And there's something he has to say, to make sure Summer knows before they go anywhere else, physically or conversationally. She has to know it the second he does, and that's right. Now.]
I love you, too.
[It's the second-absolute-worst time to say it, he realizes. But the first-worst time was when she did, after taking his color and leaving him unable to respond on any level, so fair's fair. It makes it a lot less fairy-tale, in any case.
Prompto holds Summer tight both to steady her and to keep himself grounded, drive the both of them solidly down into this moment. This is the realest he's ever been. They'll ever be.
Saying it to Ignis was different. That was stating a fact that's been true for years, and getting to tease him, too, a little bit. This--telling Summer--is making a decision. Realizing that fact, putting it into action. Prompto's placing his bruised heart in her hands with all the vulnerability she bared by stepping, slight thing that she is, into his arms. Like a light, feathered thing with hollow bones. That's all either of them is, sometimes.
He feels tall and protective and small all at once, holding her here on the stairs. Something inside him is shaking.
Maybe it's the friendless little boy he saw in the mirror.]
I want to say that now. So. S-so much.
no subject
[She says, muffled, like a person who doesn't mean it in the slightest. But affection is always easier when it's unilateral, because when she's the one giving it, she's also the one controlling it. She's not nearly as adept at knowing how to receive it, which is awfully paradoxical considering it's also often the one thing she craves more than anything else.]
You're stupid and dumb and your face is dumb.
[But her sadness is melting away because of it, dissolving the way that sadness is supposed to in a moment like this — not the gripping inescapable weight that it had been for him in the forest but something more transient, something that goes and comes like a brushfire, rapid and devastating but quickly burning out.
There's a damp spot on his shirt, which is her fault. Which means it's already destined for a wash anyway, so she feels less bad about rubbing her face against his chest to dry her eyes a little further before drawing back just enough to look up at him.]
...And I'm stupid and dumb too so I guess we're meant for each other.
no subject
I dunno. I always thought you're really smart.
[He lets a beat pass, waiting for that little-kid wobbliness to get the hell out of his voice, then adds:]
Guess that just means I'm that much stupider and dumber, huh? C'mon.
[He leans backwards a little, just shifting his weight back on his heels, not even letting her go.]
Let's get off the stairs. Then I can carry you. I-it'd be really stupid and dumb to fall down the stairs.