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[originallutece]

[He cries, his voice trembling and his eyes bright, and Rosalind bites her at bottom lip. Teeth dig in so hard that she's sure she'll break skin soon, and she's right; within a minute she can taste copper. But that doesn't matter. All that matters is that her eyes are dry and her mouth doesn't tremble. She refuses to give in to that emotion, no matter how raw she feels. It doesn't matter. Fresh off a week of torture, of torment, of sleepless nights and days, of being burned and cut and clawed, no, it doesn't matter. She won't cry.

But oh, god, he reminds her so much of Robert in this moment. Of their last fight, and how he'd looked at her, how he'd sounded, grief intermingling with a belief so powerful that nothing, not even her, would shake it. God, he'd broken her heart with it; he'd believed in it so strongly that he'd blackmailed her over it, threatening to leave her unless they did the right thing.

And when she'd stared at him in stunned silence, he'd gone softer, but his voice hadn't lost any of its passion. He'd talked about how many things he'd seen that were right, and good, and just, though there was no reason for it. He'd taken her hands and he'd talked about all the things he'd seen, all the little acts of courage or kindness that had no route in logic. That were purely unselfish, done only because they were the right thing.

It comes down to moments like this, he'd said. To choices like this, Rosie.

(And then he'd died for it, her heart wails, he'd died and what was the point, why should Booker have gotten a second chance at Robert's cost, but she won't think of that, she won't think of his broken body, his blank eyes, bruises and burns mutilating him, no, she won't think of it). ]

For god's sake, Prompto--

[She says it softly, and though the words are scolding, the tone isn't. She glances away for a long moment, her breath shaky, her fingers clenching and unclenching til there’s nailmarks on her palms.

She will never believe that. Never, ever, no matter how many lifetimes she lives through. The world is so cold, so cruel, and in her experience, it's easier to prepare for the worst than hope for the best. But at least she's come far enough to hear that kind of thing without spitefully laughing or denying it.]

You really are like him.

[She says it softly.]

You're both so optimistic. So eager to do the right thing, even if costs you everything. And I still don't believe in it. I never will.

[There's a pause, and she reaches for him, cupping his cheek for a few seconds.]

But I'm glad someone does.

[punshots]

[ The touch of her hand to his cheek splits him right to his heart, so tender a gesture from someone who does not give out such things lightly. He knows it, and while she may not believe him, she at least accepts that he won't believe her either, and that's okay. They can have this tremendous difference between them and still care about each other, still want the best for the other.

And so carefully - carefully - with his breath tight in his chest, Prompto scoots closer to her and winds his arms around her in a gentle hug. It doesn't ask much, and he doesn't let it linger for her sake. He still couldn't let the moment pass without this sign of solidarity, of support, that says more than his words ever could. ]

Don't worry. I can do all the believin' for the both of us.

[ If there's anything in this world he is good at, it's this. ]