[The gentleness of her tone does nothing to ease the delivery of those words. His pacing halts like he's been struck, hands slowly dropping down from his hair to rest at his sides, his breath picking up speed. Those words, though. She'd paused, she'd thought about it. She'd meant to say them, said them carefully, not in a rush of emotion but with quiet intent.
"They're human.
They're alive.
You are, too."
He can take a lot. His tolerance for pain's always been high, thanks to having to endure so much of it over the years. If it were physical, he could handle it just fine, shrug it off and endure it. That one, though? That one hurt.
When he speaks again, his voice is harsh, wounded.]
Why would you say that?
[He doesn't need a reminder. He thinks about it every day of his life. He falls asleep worrying that he'll be pulled from this world in his sleep and sent back to the Crystal instead. His dreams are weighed down by the words of the Draconian. Sometimes he is caught by the thought at random, unaware and off guard: when he runs fast enough to feel a twinge of pain in his chest and remembers being stabbed, when he calls out a sword and remembers the magical blue of his ancestors as they kill him one by one, when he enters Mythra's crystal for a visit and remembers being dragged, screaming, into his own. He's doing fine and living his life like normal and then his brain slams down the breaks with the thought of oh, right, I'm going to die.
When he looks at Luna, or Ignis, or his father, or Ardyn. People who know or are involved in his fate. When he looks at Prompto, feeling guilty that he hasn't shared the truth yet. When he looks at Pyra, knowing her future fate echoes his own. He remembers. He's always remembering, over and over, and it isn't every time but it's enough that the times he forgets are so blessed, and the times he can make himself forget or be distracted make things easier.
Clenching his eyes and gritting his teeth, he tries to shove it aside. He doesn't want to think about it right now. He doesn't. This place is made for borrowed time, choices he doesn't get to make back home. She doesn't get to take that away from him, gently or otherwise.]
I don't care what we are. You know that, [he says quietly, still tense, no less hurt. He's slapped a bandaid over it but the wound is still open, bleeding.] I didn't think you did.
[What the hell is her goal, here? Force him into a corner, get him to admit he'll ditch her at the first whiff of greener pastures? Like he's a wild animal, meant to be with his own kind. Like his grandfather giving his dad grief for choosing a commoner as his wife instead of a more fitting noblewoman. Like she doesn't deserve him-
-and there, he forces himself to stop, to think, before he loses it completely. He doesn't think she'd been lying this whole time, so why? Why is she...?]
no subject
"They're human.
They're alive.
You are, too."
He can take a lot. His tolerance for pain's always been high, thanks to having to endure so much of it over the years. If it were physical, he could handle it just fine, shrug it off and endure it. That one, though? That one hurt.
When he speaks again, his voice is harsh, wounded.]
Why would you say that?
[He doesn't need a reminder. He thinks about it every day of his life. He falls asleep worrying that he'll be pulled from this world in his sleep and sent back to the Crystal instead. His dreams are weighed down by the words of the Draconian. Sometimes he is caught by the thought at random, unaware and off guard: when he runs fast enough to feel a twinge of pain in his chest and remembers being stabbed, when he calls out a sword and remembers the magical blue of his ancestors as they kill him one by one, when he enters Mythra's crystal for a visit and remembers being dragged, screaming, into his own. He's doing fine and living his life like normal and then his brain slams down the breaks with the thought of oh, right, I'm going to die.
When he looks at Luna, or Ignis, or his father, or Ardyn. People who know or are involved in his fate. When he looks at Prompto, feeling guilty that he hasn't shared the truth yet. When he looks at Pyra, knowing her future fate echoes his own. He remembers. He's always remembering, over and over, and it isn't every time but it's enough that the times he forgets are so blessed, and the times he can make himself forget or be distracted make things easier.
Clenching his eyes and gritting his teeth, he tries to shove it aside. He doesn't want to think about it right now. He doesn't. This place is made for borrowed time, choices he doesn't get to make back home. She doesn't get to take that away from him, gently or otherwise.]
I don't care what we are. You know that, [he says quietly, still tense, no less hurt. He's slapped a bandaid over it but the wound is still open, bleeding.] I didn't think you did.
[What the hell is her goal, here? Force him into a corner, get him to admit he'll ditch her at the first whiff of greener pastures? Like he's a wild animal, meant to be with his own kind. Like his grandfather giving his dad grief for choosing a commoner as his wife instead of a more fitting noblewoman. Like she doesn't deserve him-
-and there, he forces himself to stop, to think, before he loses it completely. He doesn't think she'd been lying this whole time, so why? Why is she...?]