freshprints | IC Inbox

Are you just guessing?

( it's a tease, but he only realizes, only remembers, when he bends his arm at the elbow, draws their hands up so that the back of her glove is pointed in his direction, close enough to kiss her hand: that of course she must know that, they're connected like this, touching like this, and she can probably tell everything he's feeling. or at least, as much as he's letting be known--and he is happy, and he is just a tiny bit tired, but there's more to it.

it feels selfish, in some ways, to be so happy that they're here together, and he doesn't know how to best voice that. doesn't even know if he should, given how calm and warm and steady kyoko is beside him, where she tilts her head in his direction, and with one last kiss to her hand, drops their arms down so that he can twist to look at her, too. her eyes are pretty like this, in the sunlight, so it's some time before he can manage to talk again. )

Maybe you can take your gloves off again, later. ( is it weird? he just misses the touch of her skin there. ) I think it might feel nice...in the sunshine. Warm, you know?

( but there's no pressure: never any pressure, with her, with him. he's still smiling, squinting a little, though he cants his head back into the grass to look up to make sure the sound he hears isn't anyone coming close; no, it's just some birds, he thinks, chirping around near one of the patches of flowers. )

I know when you're happy. You have tells.

[He's looking at her. Looking at her, looking her over like he's memorizing her, like he's taking photographs with nothing but his gaze. It always makes her feel warm to be looked at like that, even when she's not in a strangely hazy state like she is at the moment; she's so unused to being seen for anything but the one thing she was raised to be, and that's the one thing Prompto has never asked her to be, not even once.

It's liberating. Almost as much so as pressing a control button and seeing daylight start to stream in from behind doors that were previously bolted shut.]

Mm. You want to hold my hand, right...?

[She chuckles a little, breathy, more a little huff of dreamy amusement than anything else.]

If I take them off...will you tell me why you won't take yours off...? Your...on your wrist.

( he wants to tease her for it--he's gearing up for it and everything, his gaze crinkling a little at the edges, lips parted with a soft laugh, a snort of it, and then...then it just drains out of him. falls apart, like he can't quite catch the pieces; it's funny, really, that this conversation is something that he's been dreading for so long that now, with it in front of him, he feels the weight of all of that anxiety slam down and settle, rotting, in the pit of his stomach. it shows, easily, just as it shows through where they touch--the laugh that escapes this time is nervous, breathy, as he gives her fingers a squeeze. )

Oh, me? Y-you mean...? ( yes, he's stalling, and yes, it's obvious: still, he bends their arms at the elbow again, brings his free hand across to tap the wristband that's still neatly secured, obscuring everything. ) Yeah. I...

( he tries to remember that they're alone, tries to remember the sun on his face and how pretty she looks and that she's told him, too many times, that he's worth more than he thinks he is. he tries, and he really does believe her, in a way, that she sees things maybe he can't see about himself at all--but even so, he thinks that somehow, this will be the part that pushes her over the edge. this will be the part where she says she doesn't like him after all.

he nods his chin, absently: a breeze goes by, takes with it the smell of her hair and the lingering pollen there, like a wave of cool, calm steadiness that wars with the torrential downpour of his worries. )

Okay. That's fair, right? I can...I can show you, yeah. I can do that.

[She feels it, of course, the instant her sweet and pleasant stupor starts to turn acrid and sour from the influence of his emotions trickling down into her. It clears some of the haze, making her blink twice as if clearing cobwebs from her thoughts, and she focuses on him a little more closely now that she's able to grasp a few precious seconds of semi-clarity amid the otherwise cloying haze.]

That's not what I said...

[Though it is, theoretically, the crux of his secret; that much is obvious. But it doesn't take a master detective to figure out that this is where his anxiety is stemming from — something about the prospect of showing her unnerves him, and his raw emotion makes her stomach twist.]

There's something under it? Something...that bothers you.

( it's easier to just give it up than to have to explain, right? and maybe once she's seen it, she won't really ask. maybe she'll think it's weird enough to never mention it again. he doesn't know whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, but he's trying to leave the thoughts and the feelings behind: he's ruining their nice little date by being a weirdo, right?

so he keeps their hands laced together, because he can just use the other one--he reaches, carefully, to sling his fingers into the buckle, to work it open and then, neatly, pluck the leather away. now that it's off, he doesn't know what to do with it, so he sets the wristband onto his stomach; his free hand drops onto the grass.

his gem is there, too, so maybe she'll be distracted by that, but he turns his head away like he doesn't really like the sight of it himself. that helps steady him a little, too: less feedback into their bond. )

Just that. ( he says softly. ) It's weird, huh?

[As he starts to fiddle with the buckle of his wristband, she makes the conscious decision to close her eyes — and keeps them closed, listening as the leather rustles and the metal of the latch comes free. It seems a little like he's holding his breath — whether that's physically or just emotionally, it's hard to tell — but when it's all said and done, she tilts her head up and away from his arm, and reopens her eyes to first look toward his face.

He's not looking. It bothers him — well, of course it bothers him. But for a few sleepy moments, she tries to muster up all the soothing calm and reassurance she can, and tries to push it through their connection in his direction. She tries to remember how it felt when he was the one peeling her gloves away, and she was waiting with knowledge of the ugliness hidden beneath them. Tries to remember how much it meant to her that he didn't mind, didn't care. Tries to remember how good she feels when he looks at her starry-eyed, and tries to look at him the same way.

But he's waiting, and so gradually, she looks. There, set into his wrist, is his gemstone — a sapphire. And there, beneath and around it, is...

Ink? Black ink. A tattoo?]

No. It's not weird.

[She nudges up against him, tucking against his side as she gives his fingers a squeeze.]

Nothing's changed. You can feel how I feel, can't you...?

I can...

( but. it's unspoken uncertainty, like he doesn't want to give it a voice--like it might have more power, that way, even though he knows, wildly, how much he trusts her, and how dangerous it really isn't, to do so. she's never betrayed him, never done anything but support him and accept all of his silly inconsistencies, never got annoyed by his texting or his running or anything they've done together at all. she nudges up against him, squeezing his fingers, and he squeezes hers back in response. reassuring.

there's a nervous sort of laugh, like he's just--deflating with it, letting it out. she doesn't think it's weird, but then again, why would she? probably just looks like any other tattoo, like it's something that he got once that he maybe regretted. she doesn't know the implications because he doesn't know how to tell her them; he doesn't know how to say this means that i don't fit in, that i never fit in, that i'm a liar.

she's so warm and so sleepy and so good, next to him, and he twists his head back, lays their arms down in the snug space between them. )

I've tried getting rid of it. ( when he was younger, more foolish, more panicked. ) It never goes away. I didn't put it there, but it... I don't know what it means.

( he has guesses, but they're uncertain, too. a small smile, then, as he tries to meet her eyes, clumsily, like he doesn't know if he should. ) Your hands mean something, you're beautiful, and this is just... Ugly.

My hands remind me of...something terrible that happened. Someone I'll never see again. For me, when I see them, I see mistakes I made, and the promise I made to myself that I would never let that sort of mistake happen again.

[It's not that she's more lucid now than she's been before, exactly; it's more that she's had a long time to work out those particular phrases in her mind, to the point that repeating them is almost a mantra of sorts. One word easily follows another, the thoughts sliding out like they've been tossed in oil, before eventually she yawns and snuggles against him.]

I think it's all right to have parts of yourself that you don't like. That doesn't mean you have to change it, or make excuses for it.

[She looks at him, her eyes half-lidded, her dark thick lashes framing the violet of her eyes.]

You don't have to accept it as part of yourself, either. You don't have to...assimilate it, just because someone else put it there.

Yeah... Maybe. Maybe.

( it's not the time to tell her about the rest of it--about what it means, about where he came from, about any of that. even those details are things that he only knows in scattered incompletes, and this is supposed to be a nice day, a relaxing date, and he's already started to ruin it. as much as he wants to put the wristband on again and cover things up, he thinks it means something to leave it exposed: even if their arms are between them, still hiding slightly against the grass.

she's still so sleepy, and when she snuggles up against him, he lets her hand go. it's only so that he can lift up an arm, above her head, to give her the warmth of the space against his side. with some maneuvering, it's easy to drape his arm, and that horrible barcode, around her shoulders, to hold her against him and squeeze her in to let her know that it's okay.

she looks up at him with lidded eyes, and he looks down at her with a faint smile, a little weak. )

Do you even have any idea how good you are? ( it's fond, and a little teasing, as he cranes his neck slightly to give her a kiss on the nose. ) Or how much I like you? You're sleepy enough that you'll forget this whole conversation, huh.

Mmshush. I have a — [She yawns, already disproving her own point before it's even completed.] — steel trap, mm, memory.

[...Let's be real, he's probably right and she's going to forget most of it. Some parts will stand out, though. The important things. The memory of him taking his cuff off, the twinges of upset humming through their gembond connection. She'll remember that he trusted her, too, and that even at her worst he's never stopped thinking she's worth the world.]

But you can tell me again. If you want. Just to be sure...

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