#milodrums
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ninemoons42-lestallumhaven Ā· 6 years ago
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(this is kind of sad, because the idea was a little sad to begin with. thanks to @milodrumsā€‹ for spurring me to write sad WOR Promnis, by sending me a link to this. thanks also to @makikoigamiā€‹ for hosting the writing sprint in which I drafted this.)
Quick Fic Pick 70: silver and ash
For once itā€™s a sound that forces him to swim up and out from the murky depths of sleep and the tangling cords of his nightmares, the low-level dread and the low-level wariness that he still canā€™t seem to shake off and that heā€™s almost accepted as the part of him thatā€™s grown in the absence of the sun, in the absence of the stars, in the cold wash of the moon, and he opens his eyes and places his free hand over his heart. Presses the palm in over the weary too-tripping beat, the spiking pulse in his veins, and he feels that same pulse jump again in alarm when the bulb in the rust-eaten lamp next to his side of the bed sputters and throws the room into jittering shadows for only a moment.
The light that returns is a wan mockery of warm inviting gold, and he wonā€™t ask for anything newer or better, because others need that better light, that brighter light. He can manage the semi-lit conditions of this falling-apart-at-the-seams camper for now. He can manage the spiderwebbing rays, the dust in the corners.
Soft complaining sound next to him: and Prompto reacts with all of his instincts. Hauls that wiry scarred form close. The circles he presses into the exposed skin of Ignisā€™s shoulder waver, and arenā€™t entirely perfectly shaped, and itā€™s still a surprise when that warmth seems to be enough, when the quiet broken notes falling from his lips seem to be enough. Some throwaway one-hit wonder that had been all the rage all those years ago, and why does he remember the tune and the words, why is there some part of his mind that wonā€™t let the stale bubblegum-pop go? No one sings about hearts and stars and flowers any more.
Ugh, dark thoughts, he thinks, and he has to make an effort to push those away: so he presses his nose into the back of Ignisā€™s neck, and he draws in a deep heave of a breath. The strangely fragrant waft of -- old soil under harsh floodlights. The patient coaxing of hands stirring through small half-cracked pots, sowing little seeds, guiding the struggling plantlets. Maybe in a week or in a month or in a year Ignis will succeed, and heā€™ll at least be at home in the varying sharp savory wafts of green herbs, of plants that can be used to heal.
Maybe, Prompto thinks, and he clutches Ignis closer and try as he might, he canā€™t make himself go back to sleep just yet, and he doesnā€™t even know what that sound that had woken him up had been, and he opens his eyes and gets an elbow braced underneath the rest of him so he can lean up and over and -- well, at least heā€™s gotten over himself and learned to watch Ignis, watch over him, and make sure he gets the rest he needs.
Ignis is -- still bandaged all over, but at least heā€™s no longer completely helpless, not that he ever actually was in any sense of that word. Just -- hobbled, perhaps. Held back by darkness.
But Prompto remembers watching him earlier, the bright whistling arc of a staff in his hands, and the swift martial song of his movements as he played out the entire length of that weapon and used every last inch to his own advantage, and thereā€™d been no need to worry about blindness, about accidents, now that he could move with lethal and precisely focused intent once again.
Intent like what Prompto knows lives keen and bristling in his own skin and nerves, wired straight to the guns he wears like neatly grounding weights at his hips, when heā€™s out hunting.
Intent, that he thinks he feels still crackling in Ignisā€™s own sleeping form, the hunch of him in his bones and his muscles, like lines wearing in deeper and deeper and the changes in their own bodies, constantly deprived of warmth and of sunlight --
And itā€™s a surprise, and it isnā€™t, when his eyes catch on the light-colored strands of Ignis, the wisps of untamed hair just at his ears: light enough and pale enough to be nearly bleached.
Oh.
Ignis is going gray, and itā€™s almost a wonder that it hasnā€™t happened sooner.
Sooner, what with the stress of three and four lifetimes crammed into something so much shorter. The stress, the rage, the bitter mourning tears, the sheer jagged pain. The bruises still yellowing on too-pale skin, a shocking contrast to stark purple-brown of scars born from magic and from fire.
Prompto has to bite hard at the inside of his cheek so he doesnā€™t burst into tears, so he doesnā€™t wake Ignis, so he doesnā€™t give in to the thorns and the weights around his heart. The hollowing howling agony that refuses to dull, thatā€™s anchored firmly into the hollow spaces between his ribs.
And still that flaring bright pain doesnā€™t let him stay silent: so he presses his mouth to Ignisā€™s temple instead, and mutters small apologies as soon as he feels the tears come streaking and splashing down, damp and gathering in the short strands of hair, the vivid burn-lines.
ā€œPrompto,ļæ½ļæ½ and the single word is clogged with all the world, all the emotions that he can now feel, jagging in Ignisā€™s heartbeat that he feels out with his other hand.
ā€œSorry sorry sorry.ā€
ā€œDonā€™t apologize. Not for that.ā€
And itā€™s his turn to be turned around, to be held: the entire breadth of Ignis pressed against his back, the bellows of him expanding and contracting in forceful breaths.
Prompto sobs, only a little, only enough to be heard and hushed and pulled closer, and he clutches desperately at the hand over his heart, until he can force himself to let go of his tears.
ā€œWill you tell me?ā€
Itā€™s a small thing, itā€™s such a stupid detail, and yet he says it out loud, because he canā€™t not say it. Because Ignis is asking him to say it out loud, and he gave up hiding secrets from Ignis -- from any of the others -- a long time ago.
So he says, small and clear and still fearful anyway, ā€œYouā€™re going gray.ā€
Still, silent, broken only by a startled breath.
And: ā€œAm I?ā€
Prompto grabs that hand of Ignisā€™s in both of his own. ā€œYeah.ā€
Shaky laugh, unexpected, the exact opposite of the words that follow. ā€œI thought Iā€™d already gotten started on that.ā€
ā€œThisā€™s new. I think.ā€
ā€œI believe you, Prompto. I just donā€™t believe -- myself.ā€
Thereā€™re too many layers in those words, and the layers make Prompto ache and make him wince, and he turns around and he covers Ignisā€™s temples with the palms of his hands, so he can pull him down, so he can kiss him.
Soft whispers against his lips, against his teeth. Ignisā€™s head falling back, opening up, baring himself, and Prompto redoubles his efforts and lets Ignis tug him closer, lets Ignis sift careful calloused fingers into his hair.
ā€œAnd you,ā€ he hears Ignis ask, gasping for breath, clothes pushed partly away, flat on his back.
Prompto shifts on him where heā€™s straddling those narrow hips, those muscle-corded thighs, and shakes his head. ā€œI -- probably. Scratch that. Theyā€™ve gotta be there. I just canā€™t find them.ā€
ā€œThen we can match.ā€
He laughs, a little, and he hears the edge in the sound and knows it for what it is, and he can say, ā€œYeah. Yeah we can.ā€
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momochanners Ā· 7 years ago
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milodrums reblogged your photo:ā€œIā€™m Trevor [BLEEPING] Belmont.ā€ #art #sketch...
omg dude you made castlevania fan art :D
Finished watching it just now, Belmont is such a doofus XD
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bitterbrokenbones Ā· 8 years ago
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@milodrums ;-; AHH thank you friendo!!Ā šŸ’–šŸ’–šŸ’– @paprikaschildkroeteā€‹ (HUGSSS)Ā šŸ’–šŸ’–šŸ’– ;0; I believe in you!! You got this! @trombonechurchillā€‹ šŸ’–šŸ’–šŸ’– :3c @galacticpesetasā€‹ ;v; ahh thank you so much!Ā šŸ’–šŸ’–šŸ’–
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johanirae Ā· 8 years ago
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FFXV | Prompto Argentum interviews for the CrownsguardĀ 
I am so proud of this comic :D :D :D I was always very curious about why Prompto wanted to join the Crownsguard...
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ayesakara Ā· 7 years ago
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Thanks for the tag @fadedtoblue !
rules: tag 5 people you want to get to know better
Relationship Status: happily single
Favorite Colour: blue
Lipstick or Chapstick: both, depending on the occasion. My day usually starts with chapstick, lipstick appears before a client meeting
Last Song I Listened to: something on SiriusXM 39 Hair Metal
Last Movie I Watched: the Amazing Spider-Man
Top Three Bands: Poison, Def Leppard, Aerosmith
Top Three Shows: Star Trek: several of them - hard to choose one series from the genre, Marvel's Daredevil, Game of Thrones
Three Characters: Matt Murdock, Spock, Brian Kinney
Book Iā€™m Currently Reading: The Expanse - Leviathan Wakes
tagging: @thekristen999 @heirsoflilith @martial-quill @littledidtheyknow @milodrums
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shepard-vakarian Ā· 8 years ago
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ā€œThis is Commander Shepard, and this is my favourite turian on the Citadel.ā€
*Video not mine, all credits go to original uploader Milodrums. Just found this gem and wanted to share!Ā 
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brelakor Ā· 8 years ago
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Rules: tag 9 people you want to know better
Relationship status: Single & ready to ADOPT A KITTY AND A PUPPY (I have 0 interest in relationships where Iā€™m at in live rn lol)
Favorite colour: Blue/green/greeneyblue/basically aqua
Lipstick or chapstick: chapstick for everyday because my lips are dry af, lipstick for being fancy on nights out
Last song I listened to: whatever that song in the new Thor trailer is called that I canā€™t remember the name of!
Last movie I watched: Lego batman :)
Top 3 fictional characters: Solass, Mordin (Weekes wHY), literally every dog ever in a game
Top 3 ships: Solavellan (ahahaha cries in a corner), Shakarian (STILL CRYING), Zevran/Surana
Books Iā€™m reading: How to be an Alien
I was tagged by @salvagedtime and ima tag @milodrums @vracious @geeky-jez @pinacoladamatata @misakikaito @drerra gkshxhx sorry thatā€™s not 9
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commanderducks Ā· 7 years ago
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@milodrums I donā€™t know if you ā€œgetā€ him persay but at one point he and other characters will begin to show for solo quests. Donā€™t want to spoil anything for you. :)
Ignis I love you, you are my favourite. Anyone who knows me knows it to be true.
So can you please for the love of god let me win once! Just once!
Ignis handed my butt to me so fast I didnā€™t even get to swoon!
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nyiro Ā· 8 years ago
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Just a few thoughts about the passing year below the cut :) And huge thanks to my old and new followers for sticking around - please have my best NYEā€™s wishes! May 2017 be great for all of usĀ (ļ¾‰ā—•ćƒ®ā—•)ļ¾‰*:ļ½„ļ¾Ÿāœ§ ~ Nyiro
I guess 2016 wasnā€™t a very fortunate year for the most of us. However, the passing year completely changed my life so on a personal note I have a few things to be thankful for.
Whatā€™s the most important... Iā€™ve got a job in the gaming industry. Itā€™s a small role, but itā€™s a huge start for me, especially that I work for EA. I also moved to Ireland and managed to settle down quite nicely despite all my fears and rushed decisions. I obtained Masterā€™s degree so my struggles with university are over as well. Iā€™m just glad that so far I feel comfortable where I am, even if 2016 was very difficult for my family in general.
Iā€™m also quite amazed by my fandoms shenanigans... If someone told me in the past that my favourite game would be a hero PvP FPS from Blizzard, I would laugh my ass off... But here we goĀ  ĀÆ\_(惄)_/ĀÆ And Iā€™m not sad of letting some of my old fandoms go.
When it comes to people, Iā€™m not going to do any follow forever but I have to mention some special friends that made 2016 quite bearable.
@milodrums - your gift really made the whole year better <3 FYI, Janice was kind enough to ask Phil Noto (!!!!) to draw Poe Dameron for me during a con AND HE DID, so my dear, I hope you will have an amazing 2017 and good luck with all your future cosplay projects! :)
@pop-six-squish - ITā€™S HHHHH *gets hooked* APPY NEW YEAR! Iā€™m glad that we can talk more recently thanks to Overwatch. May the Uldren and Hux always be with you :P
@ericds07 - thanks for the another year of your support! We havenā€™t talked that much recenty, so I hope youā€™re doing okay. All the best in 2017!
@saltdryad - MY PRECIOUS SWEETHEART AND THE BEST MERCY IN THE WORLD! Ā I really keep my fingers crossed for all your plans for 2017 to work out. You deserve the best and you know it <3333
@berunov - at this point I would have to thank you for basically everything, because Iā€™m pretty sure I would still be in Poland if not your constant support [HUGS] SEE YOU IN MARCH, EDGE LORD <3
Thanks to all my followers again. I really enjoy talking with you and spamming your dashes with hopefully quality content. You've made me stay on tumblr for so long, because youā€™re the best so again... MAY ALL YOUR WISHES IN 2017 COME TRUE!
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johanirae Ā· 3 years ago
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Art request by @milodrums :-) - her FFXIV faves having a sushi date!
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momochanners Ā· 9 years ago
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heyoooo will you be at CF? :D
Yup! Havenā€™t gotten a table number yet, will announce here once I do!
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bitterbrokenbones Ā· 9 years ago
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milodrums reblogged your photoset and added:
what the fuck kelly what the fuck this is gr8
THANK YOU FRIEND!! <3 <3 ILUU QvQ
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seivardens Ā· 9 years ago
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milodrums replied to your photoset ā€œGot a reshade preset that mimics skyrimā€™s enb! *_*ā€
HOW DO YOU DO THE THING
Itā€™s a mod! The only bad thing is that the HUD is blurred from the DOF too LMAO
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djkaeru Ā· 9 years ago
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OTANJOUBI OMEDETOU!!
恂悊恌ćØ恆ā˜†ļ¼Žć€‚ļ¼Ž:*ļ½„ļ¾Ÿ
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ninemoons42-lestallumhaven Ā· 6 years ago
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(I was asked to continue with this astronaut AUĀ and I got caught on the idea of how a musician/photographer could have met a software engineer who happens to do a lot of work on a space station, and this was the result, and thanks to @stopmopingstarthoping for asking for this.)
Quick Fic Pick 72: can you see me, major?
The bed looks awful good, Prompto thinks, the bed looks awful good and so do the threadbare blankets, so do the squashed-flat pillows, but -- every step he takes causes him to shed an awful amount of glitter onto the cold tiled floors and he curses the cheap beer and the hangover thatā€™s already creeping in around the edges of the back of his mind, and he forces himself to head into the tiny bathroom.
He maybe curses the piano heā€™d been stuck with -- something fatally wrong with the pedals -- heā€™d had to improvise and go without any of the usual three and as a result his ears are still ringing, because the little bar had already been too loud and then his songs had been discordant, harsh, stripped bare of sostenuto and of legato, and heā€™s never never never doing anything like that ever again -- worst comes to worst, heā€™ll improvise on an electronic keyboard.
Anything but that jangling shit sound thatā€™s still maybe sawing at his nerves even after he washes his hair three times, even after the water goes lukewarm and he leaves a trail of swirling spiraling sparkling muck on the shower drain.
Maybe he should have taken the sleeping tablets that Iris had tried to press on him. Maybe he should have smuggled Hollyā€™s pot into the venue. Sleepingā€™s the farthest thing from his mind, here in this lonely shoebox of a motel room, a hundred miles from home and he canā€™t just make a beeline for his actual own quarters because he still has shit to do in the morning.
Shit like -- he groans, and lays out his only ā€œget in front of the cameras and smileā€ outfit out on the bare shelves of the tall thin closet. Black button-down shirt, neon-green tie, undershirt, boxers, red-striped socks.
The bed fits him exactly: it is as long as he is and as wide as he is, and he curls himself up into a miserable ball of blanket and pillows, and he goes to charge his phone and he has to look, he has to look, because he canā€™t breathe and he misses his room and all the other things that live in that room. The ginger cat that belongs to the family next door, that spends most of its nights sleeping on top of his baby grand piano. The safe that contains his hoard of film cartridges for his analog SLR camera. The equally secured crate with its multiple lock-holes for his digital cameras.
All he has for this trip is the usual, which is his smartphone, which is now exactly two years, eight months, and three days out of date but itā€™s still got the single best camera heā€™s ever encountered in this kind of thing and so heā€™s gonna hold on until the thing breaks itself into little bits and pieces of shattered glass and circuit boards.
Fortunately the image he needs to look at is -- freely available online, freely remixable.
Impossible to find a comfortable spot in this bed so he just flops back onto the pillow and swipes to the image, the first file in the camera roll on this device.
The image is labeled ā€œsand dunesā€ on the ā€™net, and heā€™s long since given up on complaining that it just doesnā€™t do any justice to the actual view, and he feasts his eyes, and thinks about letting go of the day and of the night and of all of the aggravations in his life.
Calm and dynamic all at once: looking straight down from the Eos Space Station, the image shows off the dusty-golden sands of the Leide deserts, and the single rarity of Lake Hammerhead, still and huge and the perfect reflection of the blue skies in that region. Cloud formations in the image cast shadows onto the sands and onto the lakeā€™s shores, and in the lower-right corner, still mostly clear when he swipes to zoom in, are the hundreds upon hundreds of specks of captured movement: the migration of a massive herd of coeurls.
Every time he looks at the image he finds new details: a statue casting a strange shadow, a particularly elegant curve of dune, new and different phantom shapes in the cloud formations.
Every time he looks at the image he finds himself being able to take a deep clean breath: it must be the colors and the lighting, or it could be the idea of that oddly suspended serenity that he finds in the tension between the clouds and the coeurls and the shapes in the sand.
He takes that breath, and the words fall almost gently into his mind, the line fully formed and he swipes to one of the note-taking apps and locates one of his documents.
Maybe this is the line that completes a stanza, or this is the line that begins the chorus -- the idea blows softly away and he lets himself focus on the one thing, the important thing, which is -- capturing the line.
Sailing shadows in a summer-spark sky
He numbers that line, following all the others heā€™s already drafted, and he hums quietly to himself and the memory of the image allows him to stay calm, and veer away from the usual stresses of creating something new and something heā€™s never heard before.
And then, just because he can, he switches to a different document in the app, and reviews the story behind the image of Leide, taken from space: the name of the photographer. How the scene had been captured in the first place. Nothing more or less than a complete accident, a calibration of image sensors, a mistake.
Itā€™s a damn pretty mistake, Prompto thinks, and he falls asleep and dreams of stars sparkling embedded in those desert-stretch ripples -- stars that are still winking in the dawn a few hours later, when heā€™s woken up and asked to get dressed and this is the last time heā€™s participating in one of those early-morning news-magazine shows.
He canā€™t quite smile, when heā€™s ushered into the green rooms and he crosses his arms atop the nearest horizontal surface, puts his head down, thinks of coeurls on the run and closes his eyes --
ā€œThis seat taken?ā€
He shakes his head.
ā€œIā€™ll -- leave you to it then.ā€
Some impulse makes him shake his head a little, and groan, and mutter, ā€œSorry. I swear Iā€™m not usually rude like this. Not enough sleep.ā€
ā€œAh. Well,ā€ and is there something familiar about that voice? But his head is so heavy, and the climate control in the room keeps his sleeves cool and comfortable. ā€œBeen a while since I pulled the good kind of all-nighter.ā€
ā€œThereā€™s no such thing,ā€ Prompto says, and he sighs and keeps his eyes closed when he straightens up. He only turns his head in the direction of the other voice. ā€œAnd Iā€™m telling you that as someone who has to do all-nighters all the fucking time.ā€
ā€œSo what are you doing up so early?ā€
ā€œBeats me,ā€ he says. ā€œNot like Iā€™m even supposed to be singing, they want me to talk about the other thing,ā€ and he raises his hands, pretends to hold up a camera, pretends to click the shutter button.
ā€œAh. Thatā€™s a little different from singing, isnā€™t it?ā€
He snorts. ā€œA little and a lot.ā€
ā€œJust so.ā€
Before he can make up his mind to open his eyes, thereā€™s a rustle of movement on his other side, and a voice saying, ā€œNo, no, donā€™t open, you need a lot of concealer right now.ā€
Prompto groans in agreement. ā€œPlease. Iā€™d do it myself if I had steadier hands.ā€
ā€œLet me work.ā€
By the time the makeup is misted and set, heā€™s alone in the green room, and he only has the ghost of that almost-known voice to go by, and he doesnā€™t even have a face to match that voice to.
So itā€™s a real shock when heā€™s joined on one of the couch-sets by --
ā€œHave you met?ā€ the segment host chirps. ā€œYou know, common interests and all?ā€
And Ignis Scientia, sitting next to him, smiles in a small precise way, and shakes his head. ā€œHardly. But Iā€™m happy to be here, and I hope to learn something from Mr Argentum.ā€
ā€œNot sure I have anything to teach you when it comes to looking at things,ā€ he blurts out, and the words fall in a puddle between them, completely reckless.
ā€œI am not worried about my eyes; I am worried about everything else,ā€ and Ignis fucking Scientia performs the exact same gesture of holding up a nonexistent camera, of taking a photograph -- only heā€™s looking straight at Prompto when he does it -- looking at him, and smiling, and Prompto takes a deep breath, and attempts to smile back.
ā€œOh, interesting,ā€ the host says, and Prompto knows heā€™s beet-red for the entire time heā€™s on the air with the exact same Ignis Scientia whoā€™d accidentally taken the photograph thatā€™s been his obsession for some time now.
And he can still feel the heat lingering in his forehead and his throat when he says, safely off the couch-set, ā€œWhat exactly is stopping you from taking pictures anyway? Are you that busy, in space?ā€
ā€œIā€™m afraid I am; and Iā€™m afraid I get stuck looking at code anyway, so.ā€ Even a shrug is elegant, on him, and Prompto would curse him if he hadnā€™t been drinking in the prettiness of him, if he hadnā€™t been itching to take a picture of him.
And all heā€™s got is his smartphone and he raises it helplessly between them, and Ignis Scientia only nods, small calm measured movement, and Promptoā€™s hand is shaking but the image he takes comes out startlingly vivid and clear.
ā€œOh, I couldnā€™t possibly look like that.ā€
ā€œYou actually do,ā€ Prompto says.
ā€œIā€™d like a copy, if you donā€™t mind -- let me give you my number. I think Iā€™ll still be using this one for a few more days.ā€
ā€œOr I could work on this a little and then send it to you afterwards,ā€ he says, scrambling for his footing in a familiar topic.
ā€œI would like that. It was lovely to meet you. Mr Argentum.ā€
ā€œPrompto,ā€ he says, holding his hand out at last. ā€œYou donā€™t have to be so damn formal, and no one calls me that anyway.ā€
ā€œThen please call me Ignis, and will you please email me -- your work?ā€
ā€œYeah.ā€
(He does a little better, once heā€™s done jittering, and the email he sends has the processed portrait as an attachment, and the following lines:
(Sailing shadows in a summer-spark sky -- catch the clouds and the contrails in careful hands like yours)
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