Prompto opens his mouth several times, but Noct's... not-Noct-ness, how off he is, how totally bland throws him off so much he can't even words. It's almost dizzying, like looking at their reflections in a funhouse mirror and then turning to find their images flipped in the next pane of glass. The things Noct's saying, they sound so much like how he'd felt--or not felt--just days ago. Baffled, he looks for the signs Noct's color is missing, but it's all there. He just looks pale. Cold.
It's the last thing he says that jumpstarts Prompto's brain back up. He looks sharply at Noct's face, then takes heart-racing stock of the rest of him. Noct's arm keeps drawing Prompto's attention; without realizing, Prompto's hand rises up to his own heart before reaching across to follow that strange, cold trail, as if pulled along in the wake of that sliver of glass, of ice, of broken mirror.
A mirror's only part glass, after all. The rest is silver. Maybe that's what's calling him, that shard of argentum in Noctis.]
There's something--that's not your color, it's not that. What is that?
[It's too weird to strike Prompto as scary. Not yet, anyway. Frowning, mouth fallen partway open as he focuses, he traces his fingers up the inside of Noct's arm.]
It's. It's cold. [He stops and wraps his hand around as much of Noct's forearm as he can, feeling the difference between the sliver's path and the surrounding skin--and how cold the whole arm is. Even though he doesn't have to, Prompto looks Noct up and down again, and his knowledge doesn't change. It's spread so far, even down his leg.] You're cold. You're--you're literally freezing. Noct, what the hell? What happened?
[Immediately, Prompto lets go and unfastens his heavy-duty winter jacket with fumbling fingers so he can shrug it off and, without much attention to kingly dignity, stick his best friend's arms through the sleeves. As he does, both the pitch and speed of his words start to climb.]
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Prompto opens his mouth several times, but Noct's... not-Noct-ness, how off he is, how totally bland throws him off so much he can't even words. It's almost dizzying, like looking at their reflections in a funhouse mirror and then turning to find their images flipped in the next pane of glass. The things Noct's saying, they sound so much like how he'd felt--or not felt--just days ago. Baffled, he looks for the signs Noct's color is missing, but it's all there. He just looks pale. Cold.
It's the last thing he says that jumpstarts Prompto's brain back up. He looks sharply at Noct's face, then takes heart-racing stock of the rest of him. Noct's arm keeps drawing Prompto's attention; without realizing, Prompto's hand rises up to his own heart before reaching across to follow that strange, cold trail, as if pulled along in the wake of that sliver of glass, of ice, of broken mirror.
A mirror's only part glass, after all. The rest is silver. Maybe that's what's calling him, that shard of argentum in Noctis.]
There's something--that's not your color, it's not that. What is that?
[It's too weird to strike Prompto as scary. Not yet, anyway. Frowning, mouth fallen partway open as he focuses, he traces his fingers up the inside of Noct's arm.]
It's. It's cold. [He stops and wraps his hand around as much of Noct's forearm as he can, feeling the difference between the sliver's path and the surrounding skin--and how cold the whole arm is. Even though he doesn't have to, Prompto looks Noct up and down again, and his knowledge doesn't change. It's spread so far, even down his leg.] You're cold. You're--you're literally freezing. Noct, what the hell? What happened?
[Immediately, Prompto lets go and unfastens his heavy-duty winter jacket with fumbling fingers so he can shrug it off and, without much attention to kingly dignity, stick his best friend's arms through the sleeves. As he does, both the pitch and speed of his words start to climb.]
There's something inside you? Dude? It's--I can feel it, seriously, what's going on?
[He holds Noct by the front of his own jacket, staring intently into his face.]