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Oh —

[Dammit, here she is all ready to be cool and slick and brilliant and competent, and one offhand kiss to the cheek later, she's a flustered disaster all over again. So much for being smug! She can't even do anything along the lines of retaliation, not with one hand occupied by the coffee cup and the other keeping track of the bakery bag.

But the good thing is, at least she's gradually getting used to the idea that this sort of casual interest and easy affection is just part of being around Prompto, and that means she in turn is slowly warming up to it herself. It doesn't startle her anymore, which is progress; it also doesn't leave her frantically questioning his motives, which is equally beneficial. She knows why he did it — he did it because that's just who he is and how he acts. That just leaves the usual bashfulness that follows his romanticism, and she's...not entirely sure that's even something she wants to surrender to acclimation, anyway. She sort of likes the fluster, in an odd way.]

The coffee is for you. [Now, here, a flicker of the smugness returns, in the form of a faint gleam in her eyes.] I drank part of it by mistake, but it's the way you like it.

[The bakery bag, when she hands it over, is a little weightier, and more decadent. Tucked away inside a plastic box are a half-dozen profiteroles, glazed with chocolate and chosen probably for the sheer visual aesthetic, courtesy of someone who hasn't had reason or ability to treat herself to French pastries in a very long time.]

Is...it all right, if I stay awhile? Elaborating might take some time, and I know it's late.

Ah? ( the coffee is for him? and she--oh, he has to laugh at that one, a little too loud for the doorway at nearly midnight, and he immediately tempers it down. ) That must have been tough for you, drinking something that's basically hot milk...

( but it makes him happy, and honestly, she even looks happy: pleased with herself, at least, and he thinks that he wouldn't mind losing about a thousand times over if it made her happy like this. so he takes the coffee with one hand, brings it up towards his nose like he wants to confirm that he can smell the creamer more than the roast; the bag he takes with a hand that says he doesn't expect it to be as heavy as it is, but they'll get to that once she's inside and he's opened it up.

with the door open, pressed to his back, he gives a short nod, encouraging her inside with another one of those smiles, giddy and sheepish and just pleased in a way that he's not sure he'd really be able to explain. he wouldn't say he knows kyoko that well, and yet--and yet, there's just something about her that makes him always so damn happy to see her. )

You can stay as long as you want. Can even stay the night, if you sleep.

( that's a tease, as he closes the door once she's inside, shifts the contents of his hands around so that he can lock it. better safe than sorry. )

You wanna sit on the couch? ( hopefully, because he's going to head to the coffee table to set the coffee and the bakery bag down, and start to work it open. )

That's an accurate assessment, I think. Sweetened hot milk with a dash of coffee in it.

[...Okay, so it's not actually that bad but hey, a little light teasing never hurt anyone. Particularly not when the prospect of making that joke was half the reason she took the time to stop for coffee to begin with.

Regardless, once her hands are free, she takes the invitation to trot inside and automatically surveys the layout of the room. It looks a fair amount like her own apartment, she muses as she catalogues windows and exits and hiding places purely out of habit. It's cozy, too, even if the atmosphere feels rather a lot like hers — not really lived-in so much as just inhabited, a shell of a room housing a generic resident. Transient. Impermanent.]

...I might take you up on that. Staying, I mean.

[Mostly, she's calling his bluff and playing among with the teasing, but...one place to sleep isn't all that different from another. She has no significant attachment to her own room. And at least here there's someone else, someone alive.]

No one's expecting me anywhere else, so...

[She offers, by way of explanation, as she moves to the couch and sits.]

( oh. she--might actually stay. it's not like he thought she would refuse; if anything, he figured she might just gently skate around the edges of reasons why it would be better if she didn't. for one, no matter what they may now know about each other, a few things that feel distinctly personal he thinks maybe, they might have traded some coveted secrets, he still might not be sure enough for her to trust him; for another, the apartment only has one bed, not that he won't offer to sleep on the sofa if necessary. hell, he'd sleep on the balcony if he had to, just to make her comfortable, but--that's a hurdle he'll jump, or fall over, once they get to it.

she takes a seat on the sofa and he kneels, instead, by the coffee table, careful so that he can work the bakery bag open and then, with both hands, lift the lid on the plastic box inside. the pastries look incredible, drizzled with chocolate and puffed up with cream, and he knows he's definitely going to have to resist eating too many. either that or he's really going to have to take gladiolus up on his offer for sunrise runs... ugh. )

So you'll stay, and eat dessert, and go into a sugar coma with me in bed, gotcha. ( he's smiling, though, easy as it is, and rather than dive into the dessert himself, he--well, he thinks that maybe she would be more comfortable eating properly, so he gets up, pads to the kitchen, stretches for a small white plate and then returns back only so that he can pick up, with his fingers, one of the cream puffs and set it neatly down for her before he passes the plate over.

he's a heathen, and so he'll eat out of the box, himself. )

Anyway, super detective, how'd you find me? ( he sits cross-legged on the floor so as to be closer to the table--but he's licking his fingers free of the chocolate as he watches her, like she steals his attention more than the promise of the sweet and delicious things inches away. )

In your bed, on the couch, on the floor...I'm not particular about where I fall into my sugar comas.

[This cream puff is going directly into her face. Never mind that it's messy, or that she's still not taking off her gloves, or that the pastry is too big to consume in one bite so she winds up having to try to sink her teeth into just part of it, which makes the cream bulge and the chocolate smudge and remnants streak around her mouth just from trying to make sure it doesn't explode all over his upholstery.

In short, the ultimate cream puff experience. What would be the point if it weren't as messy as it is delicious.

But it gets a soft laugh out of her, too — amusement at her own self-inflicted folly — and she starts trying to catch the smears of chocolate and cream off her face with her tongue because like hell she's going to waste a single bit of her treat by wiping it away on a napkin.]

It wasn't difficult, just complicated. I found the bakery you went to before you met me at the gardens, worked the hunch that you would have visited it on your way there, and retraced to narrow down which area you probably lived in. Then I showed your picture to locals until one of them recognized you. You go on regular runs, so a few people remembered seeing you, and based on the times of day they remember spotting you, I traced back to a few building possibilities, and interviewed the staff of each one until I found you.

[She shrugs a little, looking pleased with herself and smug even despite the chocolate smudge on her cheek.]

Like I said. Not hard, just time-consuming.

( he's really trying to be a gentleman. he's trying. he watches her, as he licks his fingers clean, watches her take that huge bite and then the cream oozes out the back and he snorts, then clamps his palm over his mouth like he doesn't want to laugh at her outright, but he's laughing despite it all. and it's not that he's making fun, it's just that--well it's cute, isn't it? her face is smeared with all this chocolate and cream and though she's trying to catch it with her tongue, she's not exactly doing a very good job of it.

and a real gentleman, sure, a real gentleman would get up and get her a napkin, or maybe fish her one out of the box, it probably came with napkins and wet tissues. but this is easier, and she's not fussing with it, so: he sits up on his knees, braces one hand against the coffee table, and stretches the other out to rub his thumb across her cheek, taking as much of the chocolate as he can. then he pops it into his mouth and sits back down like it was the most casual thing in the world to do. )

Mhm~ Okay. ( he nods, taking in her explanation as he sucks the chocolate of his thumb. ) I knew I shouldn't have started running again, but man, I can't escape my freaking trainers even on this planet...

( he's smiling though, ruefully, and then reaches into the box for his own cream puff. he's worked hard enough lately, he can have just the one for now, right? right. he takes a small bite off the side, groaning with pleasure, because this is a damn good cream puff, and he's trying really hard not to let it all ooze out. ) Okay, so we should save some of these for breakfast, they'll be so good...

[She sees his hand approaching her face, of course. She could, in theory, catch it by the wrist or knock it away, or just generally block him from successfully making contact with her fairly easily. But it's also sort of a novelty, isn't it? The way he acts so immediately at ease with her, regardless of how stiff or withdrawn she might be otherwise. It makes it that much easier to model his own relaxed temperament, and that's something precious. How rare it is, when she feels like she can actually let her guard down.

So she just watches him instead, her fruitless licking coming to a standstill so as not to interrupt the swipe of his thumb, and quietly makes sure to memorize the sight of him sucking the chocolate off of it after, the way it draws her attention inexorably to his mouth.]

By that logic, you also shouldn't take pictures of yourself. Or leave your house. Or interact with anyone, really. It takes effort and sacrifice to be invisible.

[Not...that she knows anything about that, ha ha...]

You have trainers? I didn't realize you were a professional athlete along with being a photographer.

I don't think I would mind.

( it sounds like a sad statement, something that should betray some deep-seated, worried meaning: and maybe it does, in a sense, maybe it reveals a little too much. but it's late at night, and he's with someone he trusts, someone that knows things he hasn't wanted to tell anyone at all. besides, the way it escapes his lips is more thoughtful than melancholy, like he could maybe picture it, in a way: like maybe he could make it work. then again, there's something about being close to people that he thinks he probably wouldn't be able to endure, if he had to sacrifice it to be invisible. there's the conundrum.

with a soft, slow breath, he returns his attention to the cream puff; it's another bite, swallowed down, before he can allow himself to talk, not wanting to accidentally spray her with whipped cream. that would be so tragic, he would have to probably spend two whole days burrowed under the blankets out of shame and embarrassment. )

Oh, no, it's--no, it's kind of a joke... ( he's grinning, sheepish, as he says it. ) The, uh. The guy who's kind of my boss, I guess? Like the head of the crownsguard, you know, the people that protect the crown and the people and stuff, back home I mean.

( another bite of the puff--there goes some of that whipped cream, and he swipes it up with his finger, pushes it into his mouth. ) Mmmn, him and my other friend. They're very intent on keeping us all fit and ready, even here. So I had to start running again... I don't really look very athletic, huh?

You would, after a while. Maybe not at first, or maybe not in ways you'd expect. But invisibility is...lonely.

[She sits back a little in her seat, mulling between bites of her cream puff. The conversation is casual, an easy back-and-forth for the most part, but Prompto showed a little something more than he strictly had to with the way that he'd commented on the subject at hand, and so it's hard not to feel as though the balance has been made uneven. She's not obligated to tell him anything, but...

But there were so many times she made it unbalanced, back at school. Sharing nothing but demanding disclosure from everyone else. An even balance is better. It just feels more right, these days.]

I knew a girl who wanted more than anything to be an idol. She was lonely when she was young and coveted the attention that those popular performers got — and the friendships they seemed to share with each other. She worked hard and eventually became one herself. And once she had it, she was so afraid of losing it that she would've done anything to keep it.

[Absently, she traces aimless shapes on her thigh with the fingers of her clean gloved hand, eyes downturned.]

But even knowing about that "dark side", it's hard not to compare her situation and mine, sometimes. I'm sure it wasn't easy for her to act that way, but she made it look easy, and it drew people to her effortlessly. That's not something I can do, either.

[...But. That's enough of her own ruminating. A turn back to lighter conversation is in order, and Prompto provides her with an easy out for it.]

...That's why you're friends with a prince. You're one of his guards?

( he's not exactly expecting her to share anything: because he doesn't really have expectations, not in that sense, when it comes to her. he likes knowing whatever he can about her, likes when she tells him things that it feels he can add to the growing file of notes about her in his head, which of course is constantly running the risk of starting to like her a little more than he necessarily should--but he never thinks that she should share something simply to work out the balance of information between them, and it's cute, in a way, that they're not alike in that sense at all. he shares things with her carefully, softly, like he isn't sure whether she'll want it or not: she tries to balance that out with her own anecdotes, and somehow, comfortably, they meet in the middle.

it means that he goes quiet, attentive, when she starts to speak--he nods, faintly, the cream puff at his mouth, swallowing down the last of it like it helps keep his attention on that, rather than on speaking or interrupting. )

I think everyone is afraid of that, huh? ( softly, but it's more like he's wondering than anything else. ) Of losing...something you so desperately wanted, or that when you get it, it'll just...slip right out of your hands.

( that's hitting a little too close to home. but he nods, smiling, and puts his hands down into his lap to help her redirect the conversation elsewhere. )

Yeah. I wasn't raised for it, or anything. I just really wanted to be his friend, and it...went on from there. I'm super glad he let me do it, but sometimes I definitely feel out of place being the 'normal' one, y'know?

I think...you're underestimating the value of "being normal". Especially for someone in those circumstances.

[If she were talking to just about anyone else, there would've been far more of a lofty air in her voice, a sort of lecturing superiority that just comes naturally to someone who's used to being the smartest person in the room and knowing it. But for Prompto, there's something softer — an affection she reserves only for, apparently, those plain normal people with nothing special about them that she always winds up liking best of all.]

I'm not a prince, but...I know what it's like to grow up beneath the weight of expectations. To be the one designated to take on the mantle of the "family business", as it were, simply from being born into it. To be in a role like that, and have someone go out of their way to try to be your friend, not because of any ulterior motive but just...to be your friend...

[She trails off, letting the thought hang, before she comes back around to it again.]

It is special, to be normal. It's special to me, so I'm sure it's the same for your prince.

( he's quiet, for a moment--and that's certainly significant, that he doesn't seek to immediately close or clutter the space between them with words like they're necessary. instead, oddly, he's trying so hard to make those words sink in, to really cement them down through his thoughts, into his chest, that his gaze falls to look at the table, and then, further, down to his hands. he takes in a slow breath, then lets it out--and laughs, but it's soft, quiet and understanding. )

Is it weird...that I want it to be special to you? Or, well, not like that, not it, but...

( there's a faint scrunch of his nose, like he's trying to parse it out. )

That I want to be special to you, I mean.

( the part about noctis--he'll swallow that down, and try to. he knows there's a lot he needs to talk about, with him, but right now, with the state of everything, a little space seems right, too. a little time. he loves him, and misses him, but it's more complex than just being someone boring and normal; it's deeper than that, he thinks.

tentative, he glances up at her, watching her with a tilt of his head like he's gauging her reactions. )

I don't have any ulterior motives. You know that, right?

( i just like you. )

...I know. You're an honest sort of person — not just in what you say, but in everything. Who you are as a whole.

[Some people are like that. Their lives are an open book, their feelings laid bare for anyone to examine, and they make it look so easy. She envies that a little bit, sometimes, even if she can't even begin to imagine being comfortable with that level of carefree vulnerability herself.

It's nice, though. Nice to be around. Nice to be wanted, too.]

And...you are. Special. That's what I think.

( honest? honest. maybe he'd wanted to be that kind of person, once upon a time: a person who could be so freely himself without worrying about what other people might think, or see, or without worrying about the huge secrets he's lugging around, covering them up with laughter and smiles like no one will ever see through them. she hasn't found them all out yet--no, she thinks he's honest, and that makes his gaze fall, almost guilty, though he's smiling despite himself.

after all, how can a guy not smile after hearing a girl like kyoko kirigiri call him special? it feels like his heart might burst.

but he doesn't want to get too taken away with it--he doesn't want to have to start blurting out an apology for being, actually, the opposite of everything good she thinks about him. so he perks up and tilts his head at her, smiling: )

Should we go see what kind of special clothes I have for your win? Maybe something that you can wear to bed, since...

( there's a vague hand gesture that seems to imply she might not want to sleep in what she's worn over. don't girls have special pajamas or--sleep in their--underwear? great, and now he's blushing. )

There's a closet upstairs. You can model for me. ( there we go. smooth. )

Mm, if you're done. But I suppose the pastries will keep, so long as we seal them up properly.

[Which is...sort of a compliment, really, albeit one wrapped up in layers and layers of understanding Kyoko Kirigiri before it ever becomes apparent. She'd be just as content to stay here talking for hours, she finds, and that's...unusual, even startling, for her. But it's easy to relax, here. Unwinding feels like unwinding. The apartment is a tiny sanctuary from the rest of the world, where she can leave her guardedness at the door like toeing off her shoes and spend time without it for a while.

But he's got a point, and the prospect of snooping around his apartment is just as enticing, so she nods and stands up, dusting her gloved hands on her skirt as she does so.]

No pictures. [She wags a finger at him, playful.] You'll have to keep this modeling session to your imagination alone.

Too many and I'm gonna have to run extra...

( said with a typical comical groan, of course, but he's already trying to calculate how much more he'll have to work out to make up for it all. still, this is a gift that she's brought for him, so of course he's going to make sure that he wraps them up so that they'll stay until morning. bracing his hands on his legs, he pushes up onto his knees, first, and then up onto his feet, already moving to lift the box up and admire the pastries still left inside.

as far as the apartment goes, there's not too much in it for her to find yet--and even if there were? he thinks he might not even mind. the real things he doesn't want her to find are inside his head, after all, thoughts that he hasn't told her yet, and his gun is in the armiger for now, so it's safe too. his camera is out upstairs, though, on the bedside table.

the no pictures rule makes him laugh--and shift the box to one hand, backpedaling towards the kitchen while he uses his free hand to make a cross over his heart. )

Promise. I'll add it to the other thoughts I have of you, in my imagination, already.

( cheeky. but his turned back means that she's allowed to roam the apartment as she sees fit, while he takes care of sealing those pastries up safely. )

Oh, will you? Then I'll have to do the same, won't I? If they're going to affect you so much, it stands to reason they'll affect me, too.

[Probably she is trying to disarm his apparent worries about the snacks; in practice she's presumably just signed herself up for MORNING RUNS. But that's fine. There are worse things in the world, or so she assumes.

While he cleans up, she can't help but snoop; it's just in her nature. She wanders easily, mentally comparing the layout of his studio to her own, cataloguing the amenities. It's pretty comparable to hers, though even in this short time he's managed to make his feel more like a residence, where hers is still stark and barren of personal touches. She should work on that, maybe. Once she finds something personal to add to it.

— except that then he says that, and she outright makes an undignified noise, looking over at him in unmitigated surprise.]

J-Just what sort of thoughts are you harboring, anyway?

What? ( he's not sure he's heard her properly, but he's grinning, because it sounded like she said-- ) What sort of thoughts, you said?

( okay, so he's never really been great in the kitchen. and this isn't even cooking! this is just wrapping something up to keep it from going bad. but he's already tried just wrapping up the whole box, which seems excessive, so now he's transferring the cream puffs to a plate, and then, upon better thinking, a bowl, before wrapping up the top of it. he doesn't know everywhere she's wandered, but he's heard her footsteps pattering around while he's been in the kitchen. )

Y'know. The kind of thoughts you have about someone you can't stop thinking about.

( satisfied, he tucks the bowl at the back of the counter, tosses the box, and then, clapping his hands, he ducks out of the kitchen to find her with a slight, pleased grin. )

Shall we? ( he offers her the crook of one arm, like she really needs the help going up the stairs to the place where the bed--and his clothes--are. )

That's not even an answer!

[Damn it, she's actually more embarrassed by the fact that he managed to fluster her at all than she is by the topic that elicited the flustering. All the control over her features in the world isn't enough to control involuntary reactions like blushing; there's nothing she can do about it but wait for it to go down on its own, and it's not happening anytime soon.

Someone you can't stop thinking about. Did she ever, in her life, imagine that she would be that person for someone? People have to know you exist before they can think about you, and so much of her life has been about not being noticed, rather than the opposite.]

I'll pry them out of you sooner or later.

[All the huffing she's doing isn't doing a lot toward making her any less cute, however.]

They might make you blush more, you know. Be careful what you wish for!

( her blush is just one of those things that makes him smile: not the kind that he pushes up onto his face to deceive or soothe people, or the kind that's tentative in the face of uncertainty; this is a real smile, warm and bright and there for just long enough until it relaxes off of his features. it's one of those strange, giddy feelings that she gives him, when she's around, even when she's just texting him--he likes it, likes that she's here with him, too.

so he reaches out, playfully, and pinches the tip of her pink nose between his index and middle finger, tweaking it between his knuckles, before he immediately dances past her, clamoring for the stairs like he has to make a quick getaway. the stairs, however, are a little noisy: his bare feet clap against them until he finally dives up the top step and then, ridiculous and teasing, flattens his back to the wall of the loft bedroom like he's going to hide there or like she'll just, you know, happen to walk right past him and not notice.

either that, or he's going to leap out at her when she hops up the stairs after him. he'll see which works best. )

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