For Prompto, it might be a curse. The last image in his head he'll ever have is of Noctis lying there, cold and gone, even if the millions on millions of images of Noctis vibrant and alive try to crowd it out. Right now, here, kneeling on the throne room floor, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Noctis is dead. They might have saved the world and brought back the light and all of that other high fluting stuff but it doesn't matter.
He wants to scream, shout, shake the body under his hands, but even as his heart cries out, his mind knows it will do no good. It leaves him shaking, torn and frozen in place in his indecision, his fingers slowly clenching until they grasp material tightly between them.
"Noct," he manages to get out, choked until it feels like he can't breathe. It's not fair, why- why!? Ten years of lingering over this, of knowing it was coming, hadn't been long enough to come to grips with what would be. A thousand years wouldn't have been.
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He wants to scream, shout, shake the body under his hands, but even as his heart cries out, his mind knows it will do no good. It leaves him shaking, torn and frozen in place in his indecision, his fingers slowly clenching until they grasp material tightly between them.
"Noct," he manages to get out, choked until it feels like he can't breathe. It's not fair, why- why!? Ten years of lingering over this, of knowing it was coming, hadn't been long enough to come to grips with what would be. A thousand years wouldn't have been.