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Every time he came back he smelled like the streets.

It wasn't bad thing, but I always recognized it whenever he came back from the city. It was what he smelled like; He smelled like the city and the streets. It clung to his clothes like sap on a tree. There was also the faintest traces of smoke and cinnamon. That was what he smelled like. I wasn't complaining, though, because I liked that smell. I was used to that smell, the scent of cinnamon and smoke lingering around the camp and the scent of the city lingering the next day whenever he came back. I liked being used to that smell. It made me realize that everywhere he walked, the streets came with him. He was a part of the streets.

Around the first time I noticed this smell was when I began wondering, was he a part of the streets? I knew what he was, and I knew what he did. He liked trouble, getting into it every other day whether it be on purpose or an accident. A part of me thought that maybe he sought out the trouble that he encountered, that he went out just for that. Another part of me said that even though he enjoyed the trouble, the trouble was what sought out him. It was probably both, now that I think about it. That's what he was: Trouble, cities, and streets. He was all of these these things and more, and for some reason I liked that about him.

He always came back with a smile, and I wondered why. Perhaps he was happy because of this so called trouble that he sought out (or the trouble that sought him out, I still really wasn't quite sure what it was), or maybe he was just happy to be back. But if he was so happy here, why did he always go back out to the city? I asked myself that every time he came back for us, and the answer really seemed a lot simpler than I was making it. It was because he was a part of the city, and a part of the streets. Yet even with this answer I knew, I still asked myself why. Was it possible to be part of these two things at once? To be part of our group, a group that was dedicated to the crown, a group that did the opposite of seeking out trouble, was something completely different than what he was: A troublemaker.

Yet somehow he belonged with us just as much as he belonged with the city streets.

It was one time that he left us for a longer amount of time than usual that I really got around to thinking about how he was a part of the streets (He usually came back after a day or two, and this time he had been gone for over a week and it was starting to concern me). Was it just the trouble that he enjoyed about the streets? There had to be something that drew him towards the cities. I had yet to come up with an answer. I had asked him myself before, and he had just smiled at me and said almost nothing that helped me find an answer I was looking for. It wasn't that his answer was the one I wasn't looking for, but he had just given me a small shrug and told me that he liked the streets. How were the city streets better than the streets that we drove on every day? In the cities he was wanted, a fugitive and criminal. Out here he was free. So what drove him to the streets?

He was the streets, I finally decided. And I was content with the answer I had forged for myself until the day he had come back after disappearing to the streets for too long.

There was nothing different about the way he came back. He just sauntered into our camp with the same, happy grin on his face that told me he was glad to be back with us. As usual, he didn't say a thing about where he had gone or what he had done. He just walked in with his smile that lit up his blue eyes and puffed up his freckled cheeks. It was then I realized my answer to the question was wrong.

Prompto was not a part of the streets; The streets were a part of him.