Quicksilver

Written by LUCAS (HE/HIM), 34 years old. You may know me from my CAPTAIN HOOK, @piraticalwit or my LUCAS NORTH (@spynorth ) . Due to my own age and the potential nature of this blog, I will not write with anyone under the age of 18. this blog will run on a queue with priority going to certain partners. I follow only those who I am interested in writing with and try to keep a fairly clean dash. 

Thanks but no thanks.

“Seriously, bro. I’m good here.” But as Noct turns to leave, he’s struck by the idea of silence, so its with a scrambling of legs and arms that he suddenly finds himself outside of his beautiful haven, palms brushing imaginary lint from his pants. “On second thought - how can I make you do this without me?” Lips purse in a low whistled melody, shoulder knocking against his friend’s own. “Someone has to get photo evidence of whatever tiny thing you reel in today, am I right?”

They’ve found their way to the shore, a salt soaked haven of soft gull cries and a warm wind that ruffles the length of his hair as if it’s greeting an old friend. The waves pull against the toes of his boots like they too are eager for adventure, dampening rough leather in their attempts at persuasion, and for a moment Prompto finds himself fighting the urge to dive in, to see what secrets the water holds.

“Uh.. really? You think so?” Gloved fingers pick a half-buried shell free of its sandy prison and with a single toss send it out to chase the beads of light dancing atop the water. Kairi’s words hurt in a way he can’t quite explain, leave an ache in the hollow of his chest where he’s sure a memory is meant to be, and as if on instinct nails begin to curl themselves into sensitive palms, leaving crescent shaped marks in their wake. The breeze that ruffles his hair feels more taunting jester than old friend now, a teasing voice that dares him to remember that tantalizing light that is nothing but a dim glimpse through reigning shadows.

Teeth bite at a chapped bottom lip as he considers the girl next to him, cornflower colored eyes tracing the lines of her profile. Ghosts and echoes of friends dance around them, faint silhouettes of a life once lived, and Prompto can’t help but wonder if she sees them too, if familiar strangers whisper her name in the dark of her bedroom at night. His voice, when he speaks, is quiet .. a soft, halting thing that is flavored in the apologies of a boy scared to lose the only friend he has.