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Noctis’ cheek is smooth against his knuckles, his hair soft against the pads of his fingers when Noctis tilts his head. “I know that it’s, like, a bad omen to say this, but—“
“You’re going to say it anyway,” is a murmur against his skin.
And he does. Say it anyway, that is. “But who’s around to tell us that we don’t have as much time as we want?” It doesn’t feel like a curse when it comes out of his mouth. There’s no slime left behind on his teeth, or dirt caught against his gums, or anything like that. So—so, maybe it’s not as bad an omen as it could be. Maybe this time, they really do have all the time in the world.
Noctis laughs against his palm. Prompto feels it there like scattered sand.
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