It's somehow easier to talk about prepping their dinner than the real meat of the problem - oh, he doesn't know, the whole thing(?) that he thought was between them, only it wasn't. If there ever had been a Thing, he tells himself it fizzled away once they got into that fight and Gladio was gone only hours later. Easier said than done. Every time he sneaks glances at Gladio, at the fresh scars, the hair that he's officially gone screw it and let it grow wild, he still feels a pang clenching tight in his chest. Maybe it's regret. Maybe it's stronger than that.
Okay, so not thinking about all that. Eyes on the prize, Prompto. Prize, in this case, being a cooked meal with meat that isn't out of a can for a change and bonus, he didn't have to hunt it down himself.
Prompto takes the oil and parks himself by the fire. It's such a small bottle that he figures the unspoken rule is don't go crazy with it. He's conservative with how much he puts into the pan, tilting it this way and that so he gets as easy a coat as he can manage.
"Think this is good?" Prompto meant for it to be all matter-of-fact, but it pops out a question instead, like the old days where he was always looking for the others for advice. For help. A little embarrassed he's still acting like a kid, Prompto clears his throat and squares his shoulders, resisting the urge to hunch forward.
Gladio looks over at the question and squints, then gives a quick nod. Looking down at the meat, he gives a strange sort of smile before he begins speaking, his voice easy as if it still doesn't destroy him inside to talk about. "My dad taught me how to cook on a campfire, you know." He moves over and leaves the meat on what it had been carefully wrapped in sitting by the fire to get warmed up. Some magic has its uses, even if he's not fond of it personally. "The King-" a brief pause, then a change, "King Regis, dad, Cid, and Whesker... they did something like we did. A big road trip. Whesker taught my dad, then he taught me when we went camping. Iggy taught me a trick or two, but I like it just like this instead of on the grill."
He doesn't talk about his dad, or the better days, very often. Almost never, unless Iris is around. She wants them to remember the better times; it leaves him with new holes inside of him because he can't let himself grieve. Still, the words come out, to his own surprise, as if Prompto just being here changed something.
His fingers reach out, carefully testing the heat just above the skillet, waiting for the oil to get hot enough.
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Okay, so not thinking about all that. Eyes on the prize, Prompto. Prize, in this case, being a cooked meal with meat that isn't out of a can for a change and bonus, he didn't have to hunt it down himself.
Prompto takes the oil and parks himself by the fire. It's such a small bottle that he figures the unspoken rule is don't go crazy with it. He's conservative with how much he puts into the pan, tilting it this way and that so he gets as easy a coat as he can manage.
"Think this is good?" Prompto meant for it to be all matter-of-fact, but it pops out a question instead, like the old days where he was always looking for the others for advice. For help. A little embarrassed he's still acting like a kid, Prompto clears his throat and squares his shoulders, resisting the urge to hunch forward.
no subject
He doesn't talk about his dad, or the better days, very often. Almost never, unless Iris is around. She wants them to remember the better times; it leaves him with new holes inside of him because he can't let himself grieve. Still, the words come out, to his own surprise, as if Prompto just being here changed something.
His fingers reach out, carefully testing the heat just above the skillet, waiting for the oil to get hot enough.