It comes out more sarcastic than he meant, bordering on catty, but Prompto's tired and maybe, just maybe, a little scared about where this could go. If there's a chance they could still have that thing between them. Smart thing is not to assume anything, not trust they could even make it a week from now with all the daemons, but Prompto's still got a hopeless romantic deep inside.
He catches up with Gladio, needing to take several strides to catch up to his longer ones, his boots squelching against mud and wetlands grass until the ground starts to go from level to ascending and it starts turning into rock. The glow feels both like home and painful, full of memories that he wishes he could shove to the side. With the two of them it feels...empty. Wrong. They're missing some key party members here.
"I got the fire."
Prompto always goes for that first, at least when he's stuck out in the sticks by himself. Fire won't stop a daemon going at you full-bore, but between the runes and some fire, he figures the odds of a few hours of safe sleep are better than without. Prompto can't help but glance after Gladio, the scarred muscles against his back, before he kneels by the fire pit and gets to work.
After awhile, he has a flame going, feeding some kindling in it from his pack until he get can get it big enough to cast a warm glow across the haven's rock face. Sighing, Prompto levers up from his knees and cracks his back, wriggling out the kinks.
Gladio glances back with the sarcasm of Prompto's comment, his brows coming together. That.. isn't anything like the Prompto he knows. Prompto isn't catty, he's not cold, he's not stoney, and yet so far, that's what he's feeling from the younger man. They've both changed; maybe he hasn't changed enough.
They've been missing pieces of themselves for a long time. Gladio wonders, standing there, watching Prompto's face flicker in the faint light of the glow of the runes and the center ring of the haven, if they've changed too much for the missing pieces to fit back into the spot they had all carved into one another. It's his fault, in part, if they can't.
He left first.
Gladio only nods in comment to Prompto taking the fire, and goes for getting out bedding for them both. It means digging into Prompto's pack to find it, but things aren't terribly different across the board when it comes to what people have to sleep on if they're anywhere out in the wild. Supplies are not only hard to find but getting near impossible; he's even learned to sew to repair some things. What might surprise Prompto is the sight of a rolled up hide, which Gladio spreads out first across the rocky ground before putting their bedding down on top of it.
Once he's got it situated, bedding side by side near the fire, he stands up and unknowingly mirrors Prompto with a stretch and pop of his back. "All set here. I've got steaks we can turn into dinner, if you're interested." Pretty much one of the very few people he'd be willing to share with so easily, anymore.
When Prompto glances back at the bedding situation, he has to admit he isn't too surprised to see they're put close together - close enough that they can shade body heat and protect each other if a daemon or any wildlife that's survived the endless night gets too close. The havens are still safe, ish, but they aren't the guarantee they used to be before Luna and Noct...before the sun set for the last time and here they are. As close to the fire as they can get.
"Count me in. I'm kinda starving," Prompto has to come clean. He's never been the best cook and eating out in the sticks got a lot worse when you aren't traveling with the most badass chef in the world. As much as he's toeing the water, trying to find out where things stand with Gladio, he can't say no to a cooked meal. Beats the canned meats he'd been dragging around in his back, easy. "Do you need help?"
His voice is quiet, eyes darting to Gladio and then away. He's dying to ask about the new scars, how long he's growing the mullet (it is even a mullet still?), what he's been up to. If he's maybe caught up with Iggy. The words die in his throat as he fishes about for something to say. They didn't always have awkward silences; at least he didn't think they did. Probably started happening after night fell and dawn stopped showing up.
Prompto glances down to make sure his hands aren't shaking still - they aren't - and he figures he's safe around any sharp, pointy objects now. "What do you want me to do?"
He doesn't promise it won't turn out like leather - and that's putting it kindly.
Prompto also might note that Gladio put himself on the outside, tucking in Prompto closer to the fire. Always protecting, even in this sort of situation. Even after all that's happened. Gladio trusts the havens, to a point, he's yet to be attacked in one, but he's no fool. Safety first, live to fight another day. There's a goal at the end of it all.
Gladio's hair, pulled up as it was, probably didn't quite qualify for a mullet anymore. Hard to keep the shaved look going in this sort of existence. Instead he just kept it up and out of his face, but it certainly has its own look to it. He kneels by his pack, pulling things out. It's strange, having someone there who talks as much as Prompto as any hunter he's shared havens with have mostly been quiet company. They've all had their scars, but just having someone they could briefly trust nearby... helps.
Prompto, even after the fall out, is still someone he trusts completely.
"Here." Some things don't change. He pulls out the old campfire pan, battered and worn but serviceable, and gestures for Prompto to take it. "Get it set up on the fire and-" he put out a tiny bottle as well, oil, "-get a layer of that down." He's no cook, but he can at least make a steak cooked decently enough. That last hunt had been something awful, but at least the meat from it had been decent and the armiger... well, it keeps food endlessly.
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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It comes out more sarcastic than he meant, bordering on catty, but Prompto's tired and maybe, just maybe, a little scared about where this could go. If there's a chance they could still have that thing between them. Smart thing is not to assume anything, not trust they could even make it a week from now with all the daemons, but Prompto's still got a hopeless romantic deep inside.
He catches up with Gladio, needing to take several strides to catch up to his longer ones, his boots squelching against mud and wetlands grass until the ground starts to go from level to ascending and it starts turning into rock. The glow feels both like home and painful, full of memories that he wishes he could shove to the side. With the two of them it feels...empty. Wrong. They're missing some key party members here.
"I got the fire."
Prompto always goes for that first, at least when he's stuck out in the sticks by himself. Fire won't stop a daemon going at you full-bore, but between the runes and some fire, he figures the odds of a few hours of safe sleep are better than without. Prompto can't help but glance after Gladio, the scarred muscles against his back, before he kneels by the fire pit and gets to work.
After awhile, he has a flame going, feeding some kindling in it from his pack until he get can get it big enough to cast a warm glow across the haven's rock face. Sighing, Prompto levers up from his knees and cracks his back, wriggling out the kinks.
no subject
They've been missing pieces of themselves for a long time. Gladio wonders, standing there, watching Prompto's face flicker in the faint light of the glow of the runes and the center ring of the haven, if they've changed too much for the missing pieces to fit back into the spot they had all carved into one another. It's his fault, in part, if they can't.
He left first.
Gladio only nods in comment to Prompto taking the fire, and goes for getting out bedding for them both. It means digging into Prompto's pack to find it, but things aren't terribly different across the board when it comes to what people have to sleep on if they're anywhere out in the wild. Supplies are not only hard to find but getting near impossible; he's even learned to sew to repair some things. What might surprise Prompto is the sight of a rolled up hide, which Gladio spreads out first across the rocky ground before putting their bedding down on top of it.
Once he's got it situated, bedding side by side near the fire, he stands up and unknowingly mirrors Prompto with a stretch and pop of his back. "All set here. I've got steaks we can turn into dinner, if you're interested." Pretty much one of the very few people he'd be willing to share with so easily, anymore.
no subject
"Count me in. I'm kinda starving," Prompto has to come clean. He's never been the best cook and eating out in the sticks got a lot worse when you aren't traveling with the most badass chef in the world. As much as he's toeing the water, trying to find out where things stand with Gladio, he can't say no to a cooked meal. Beats the canned meats he'd been dragging around in his back, easy. "Do you need help?"
His voice is quiet, eyes darting to Gladio and then away. He's dying to ask about the new scars, how long he's growing the mullet (it is even a mullet still?), what he's been up to. If he's maybe caught up with Iggy. The words die in his throat as he fishes about for something to say. They didn't always have awkward silences; at least he didn't think they did. Probably started happening after night fell and dawn stopped showing up.
Prompto glances down to make sure his hands aren't shaking still - they aren't - and he figures he's safe around any sharp, pointy objects now. "What do you want me to do?"
He doesn't promise it won't turn out like leather - and that's putting it kindly.
no subject
Gladio's hair, pulled up as it was, probably didn't quite qualify for a mullet anymore. Hard to keep the shaved look going in this sort of existence. Instead he just kept it up and out of his face, but it certainly has its own look to it. He kneels by his pack, pulling things out. It's strange, having someone there who talks as much as Prompto as any hunter he's shared havens with have mostly been quiet company. They've all had their scars, but just having someone they could briefly trust nearby... helps.
Prompto, even after the fall out, is still someone he trusts completely.
"Here." Some things don't change. He pulls out the old campfire pan, battered and worn but serviceable, and gestures for Prompto to take it. "Get it set up on the fire and-" he put out a tiny bottle as well, oil, "-get a layer of that down." He's no cook, but he can at least make a steak cooked decently enough. That last hunt had been something awful, but at least the meat from it had been decent and the armiger... well, it keeps food endlessly.
no subject
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.