[Given the way Prompto's looking at her, adoring, heart-aching proud, grateful, and unsurprised at all to see her glowing, maybe this is just how Summer looks to him all the time. Maybe, for him, she's always the most important thing in the room.
This time, he keeps the card instead of pressing it back into her hands. This time, he holds it flat to his chest, like he can discard the metaphor and be the protective container on his own.
This time, he raises his hand to touch her face, light and gentle fingers along her jaw, under her ear. The photographer's fingers, not the gunner's.]
Really, I'm not, girl. I'm just normal.
[The soft curve of his hand slides to cup her face, her chin. Unthinking, he says it again, just to say it. Just to feel it in his mouth the way he couldn't, all these months since the banquet.]
Summer.
[Summer. Summer. Heat and sun and thunderstorms, dragging himself out of bed late for syrupy morning runs, light kissing his sticky skin and promising freckles across the back of his neck, red hair and scars and a wry voice calling him Quicksilver.
Prompto's not sure where the card's gone when his other hand comes up to complete the cradle around her face, because his heart's too full of her in this moment for any other clever visual inventions.]
I think it's pretty normal to be in love with you. [His voice is hushed, his eyes smiling and overfull.] Like I am.
no subject
This time, he keeps the card instead of pressing it back into her hands. This time, he holds it flat to his chest, like he can discard the metaphor and be the protective container on his own.
This time, he raises his hand to touch her face, light and gentle fingers along her jaw, under her ear. The photographer's fingers, not the gunner's.]
Really, I'm not, girl. I'm just normal.
[The soft curve of his hand slides to cup her face, her chin. Unthinking, he says it again, just to say it. Just to feel it in his mouth the way he couldn't, all these months since the banquet.]
Summer.
[Summer. Summer. Heat and sun and thunderstorms, dragging himself out of bed late for syrupy morning runs, light kissing his sticky skin and promising freckles across the back of his neck, red hair and scars and a wry voice calling him Quicksilver.
Prompto's not sure where the card's gone when his other hand comes up to complete the cradle around her face, because his heart's too full of her in this moment for any other clever visual inventions.]
I think it's pretty normal to be in love with you. [His voice is hushed, his eyes smiling and overfull.] Like I am.