[he plays it off cool, waiting for something to come and doesn't try pushing his way through making it happen. nothing natural would if he poked, and for a moment he reorients himself to smaller things for his constantly moving brain to focus on. what does McGillis smell like? things like that.
okay, that's... definitely better. it's a little surprising to Prompto, at least at some level, that he's talking in a way that doesn't lead to demands or implementations. there's a hint of sadness behind the diction here, and as he listens, he imagines an entire field of chocobos running in an empty field. he gets it. they're kind of beautiful- birds. they can go where they please. they're the owners of the skies, unburdened by conventions or barcodes or notions about what they need to do.
in any case, if it's not the intended effect he wanted to bring to the table, it provides a better, and less rigid option. a hulking, brooding, presumably much stronger man with someone relatively weak boned and fragile in his arms. it wouldn't be the first time that Prompto's been likened to a bird himself, but that's weird imagery to conjure up here.]
Back in my home world, we have these birds that are bigger than you can imagine. You can actually ride them. They're really... like. These gentle things, soft and warm, and so powerful. They're beautiful.
[as the grip around Prompto softens a little, he shifts an inch or two to pull out his camera, again, for the umpteenth time since they met, as he flips through with a single flick... 100's of photos back, to show him what a chocobo looks like as it rests happily at a post, nestled in on itself.]
See?
[he tilts the preview window up so the other can see it. they're definitely not extinct where he comes from. and as he shows him, he nestles his head closer up against him, his wild hair threatening against his jawline, if only to let him get a better view of what he was talking about.
no subject
okay, that's... definitely better. it's a little surprising to Prompto, at least at some level, that he's talking in a way that doesn't lead to demands or implementations. there's a hint of sadness behind the diction here, and as he listens, he imagines an entire field of chocobos running in an empty field. he gets it. they're kind of beautiful- birds. they can go where they please. they're the owners of the skies, unburdened by conventions or barcodes or notions about what they need to do.
in any case, if it's not the intended effect he wanted to bring to the table, it provides a better, and less rigid option. a hulking, brooding, presumably much stronger man with someone relatively weak boned and fragile in his arms. it wouldn't be the first time that Prompto's been likened to a bird himself, but that's weird imagery to conjure up here.]
Back in my home world, we have these birds that are bigger than you can imagine. You can actually ride them. They're really... like. These gentle things, soft and warm, and so powerful. They're beautiful.
[as the grip around Prompto softens a little, he shifts an inch or two to pull out his camera, again, for the umpteenth time since they met, as he flips through with a single flick... 100's of photos back, to show him what a chocobo looks like as it rests happily at a post, nestled in on itself.]
See?
[he tilts the preview window up so the other can see it. they're definitely not extinct where he comes from. and as he shows him, he nestles his head closer up against him, his wild hair threatening against his jawline, if only to let him get a better view of what he was talking about.
almost cuddling.]