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It didn’t mean anything.
It was a new year’s kiss.
They were both drunk and people were cheering and their entire heist hinged on the fact this was no big deal, after all. They were married. Kissing was… small potatoes, in the grand scale of things.
Honestly.
It didn’t mean anything. It’d been an impulse decision, between entirely too much beer and entirely too much peer pressure, and that was it. They woke up hungover and miserable three hours past noon the next day, and then shuffled right back where they belonged, which was… which was fine. It was good. Nyx liked the life they had, easy friendship and just… company that didn’t judge. They split the chores and the bills and went out for drinks at the arcade every other week. Which was really the exact same way things had already been like, before this started, because their personalities clicked and their tastes ran similar enough. They were friends, good friends, good enough to sit down and plot a tax scam drinking cheap beer in a tiny booth at the far back corner of the arcade they liked to hang out at.
So the occasional kiss was to be expected, as were the hugs and the hand holding, and frankly, it didn’t seem too bad, in the beginning: Prompto took to affection so easily and Nyx always had overabundance of it and no one to pile it on. It was easy to stretch their friendship as it was, and make it into something else, just in case anyone else was looking.
But it didn’t mean anything.
A new year’s kiss, beer foam bubbling down his throat, he’d gone for a peck and Prompto had dug his fingers into his hair, tightening around the base of the braids and the gasp he let out might as well have been surrender, because the kiss deepened and Prompto pulled him down, closer… And Nyx meant it, fuck him over sideways, he’d meant it, right there and then, he’d meant it and wanted more and Prompto moaned in tune with the bass thumping in their bones and just…
“Fuck,” Nyx says, burying his face into his hands. “Fuck.”
…he needs to call Cor, dammit.