[That's...weirdly beatific, somehow, the lightglow that descends around her; it leaves her looking at her hands, spreading her fingers to take in the way the light haloes her outline like a shadow puppet in reverse. But all that interest quickly goes by the wayside as Prompto speaks, and her eyes are just barely wider than usual as she watches his mouth shape the words she knows are coming, but isn't quite ready for anyway.
Summer. Summer Moran. That's you.
It is. And all of a sudden, it's like a treasure chest of her own has cracked open, the lid unhinging to release something that she, too, has kept buried all this time — a memory of her own, cargo pants and oversize sweatshirts, linoleum tile steps up a few floors in the dorm, cafeteria tables and paved sidewalks and the bright spring sky overhead, flags in the quad, jet trails like clouds across the blue, the buttery-soft-sleek touch of Nick's leather jacket and paper cups of soft-serve ice cream —
— Nick of time. Summertime. You're such a moron, Moran. Don't be such a bummer, Summer.
Her name.
Her.
It's not her name he's been keeping at the bottom of that chest. It's her.]
I know.
[She does, and it's breathless, the recognition leaving her in a rush that's damp with the promise of elated tears, like something lodged deep in her chest has finally come free and now all that's left is catharsis.]
You're a heck of a guy, Prompto Argentum.
[She looks down again, looking at the drape of her ink-black cloak where it's spread across her shoulders, her forearms — and discovers, oddly enough, that when she's illuminated like this, that ever-present glamor of don't-look-at-me has been nullified, and there's absolutely nothing inhibiting the eye from lingering on her at all.]
no subject
Summer. Summer Moran. That's you.
It is. And all of a sudden, it's like a treasure chest of her own has cracked open, the lid unhinging to release something that she, too, has kept buried all this time — a memory of her own, cargo pants and oversize sweatshirts, linoleum tile steps up a few floors in the dorm, cafeteria tables and paved sidewalks and the bright spring sky overhead, flags in the quad, jet trails like clouds across the blue, the buttery-soft-sleek touch of Nick's leather jacket and paper cups of soft-serve ice cream —
(Hey, Summertime, Summertime, Sum-Sum-Summertime!)
— Nick of time. Summertime. You're such a moron, Moran. Don't be such a bummer, Summer.
Her name.
Her.
It's not her name he's been keeping at the bottom of that chest. It's her.]
I know.
[She does, and it's breathless, the recognition leaving her in a rush that's damp with the promise of elated tears, like something lodged deep in her chest has finally come free and now all that's left is catharsis.]
You're a heck of a guy, Prompto Argentum.
[She looks down again, looking at the drape of her ink-black cloak where it's spread across her shoulders, her forearms — and discovers, oddly enough, that when she's illuminated like this, that ever-present glamor of don't-look-at-me has been nullified, and there's absolutely nothing inhibiting the eye from lingering on her at all.]