I don't- [A beat. Noctis' act at hardball is often just that- an act. He plays at disaffected apathy, only to be called out in the act- caught like a kid with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. His face turns away, an attempt to smooth over the creases in his expression only to wind up dragging a hand over his face in defeat.
What does he say? He hopes someone'd do the same for him, despite knowing how unlikely that is. He knows some part of him would be stewing on it if he didn't at least try.]
It'd just make me feel better. Alright? [His arms fold over his chest: defensive, accusatory.]
no subject
What does he say? He hopes someone'd do the same for him, despite knowing how unlikely that is. He knows some part of him would be stewing on it if he didn't at least try.]
It'd just make me feel better. Alright? [His arms fold over his chest: defensive, accusatory.]