Chapter Text
It’s a small mercy he doesn’t dream, conjuring imagery much too strenuous a task for his exhausted mind. Instead there is nothing, a void that cradles Prompto until some time later. When the safety of the sun shines over Duscae once again. It isn’t the light that eventually tugs him back to awareness though, it’s the echoes of voices. A familiar roll of sounds that reach him in a muffled, distorted way. Not quite heard as they were meant to be. But even in his sleep there’s recognition for the voice the sounds came from, one he knows better than any other—
“Noct,” Calls a different voice, stating his own thought aloud in a low tone. It still reaches him more clearly than those first sounds though, the comforting haze of sleep quickly abandoning Prompto. “Leave him be.”
“Since when do you let people sleep in?” The prince in question asks incredulously, seeming to follow Ignis’ lead and dropping the volume of his words.
“Given your habits? Everyday.” Ignis answers easily, in that wry way of his. Prompto can practically see his expression even with his eyes closed, features smooth and solemn but for the little glint of amusement hidden among the flecks of sharp green eyes. And when Noctis isn’t looking, the smallest of smirks might tug at his lips, only lasting for a brief moment. Prompto always liked it when he managed to catch that look on Iggy’s face, as if he’d won an impromptu treasure hunt no one else was playing. “Besides,” He continues after a beat, busying himself with some task given the noises that follow. “It isn’t his fault you’re up at a reasonable hour for once.”
Much like with Ignis, it isn’t hard for him to imagine the look Noct must give at the jab, eyes narrowing slightly before they roll, Noctis letting out a grumbled ‘whatever’ under his breath. Dully, Prompto hears the thump of boots against the vinyl floor of the camper, growing more muffled with each step they make.
“Since you are up, why not give me a hand?”
Whatever answer Noct gives doesn’t reach to the bedroom, and instead all Prompto can hear are the continued cadence of Ignis working in the small space. Cooking most likely, Prompto thinks. It sounds like that kind of symphony. But for once the thought of food, even one of Ignis’ masterful meals, doesn’t fill him with excitement.
Instead, a heavy weight fills the pit of his stomach almost to bursting, dread and knowledge packed into a boulder pinning him down. He’s grateful for the extra time, even if the chance of catching any more sleep has slipped through his fingers. It gives Prompto a chance to ready himself for whatever is waiting beyond the safety of the thin blanket he’s hidden beneath. Tries to focus on the greater task at hand.
The fact they’re going to be making their way to the Meteor itself today, to face whatever kingly task the Archaean holds for Noct. Tries pointedly not to think about the fact that Ardyn is somewhere out there, waiting . Even as the man keeps slipping in front of every thought he can conjure. Nausea works its way through him, making Prompto curl tighter into himself where he lays. Even as every inch of his body protests the action, loudly and with conviction. He feels utterly wretched, knows that there isn’t any way he’ll manage to be on the top of his game.
Which means— once a-fucking-gain —he’s going to be dragging the others down.
It’s that thought, and the disgust it fills him with, that has Prompto shoving aside the blanket and forcing himself up. The action’s momentum is enough to carry Prompto to his feet, and two steps towards the curtain covered doorway before he stops in place. Ignis is still out there, possibly with Noct, and the idea of seeing either of the two men makes his stomach turn painfully. Uselessly, he wishes the door to the bathroom opened the opposite way, so that he could use the thin barrier as a shield of sorts. Roughly pressing a hand against his eyes, letting the heel of it push almost painfully into the socket, Prompto lets out a strangled, bitter laugh.
Pathetic . He was being pathetic . Scared of the few people he trusted more than anything. Scared of a man who had already done what he wanted. And it wasn’t like Prompto had even tried to stop him, so what right did he have to feel like this?
None.
Absolutely none.
Brushing thin fingers through his bed messed hair, Prompto shakes his head, rolls his shoulders, and tosses his hands out the way someone might when trying to dispel water. With that he forces on the trusty smile he’d spent so long cultivating as a child, and forces himself to take the rest of the steps to that daunting curtain.
“Morning,” He forces out in what he hopes is a convincingly chipper, sing-song tone, pushing the curtain aside with no hesitation. It draws Ignis’s attention away from the cutting board and array of veggies in front of him, the older man offering a slow greeting of his own and a curt nod.
Beside Iggy, Noct leans back from the caravan’s little stove to peek around the older man. “Sleeping beauty finally decided to join us, huh?” He says with a small, teasing smile curving his mouth. “Will wonders ever cease?”
“Like you have any room to talk,” Prompto puts a healthy dose of mock affront into his tone, the words coming a touch clumsily to him, but easier than he expected. “Awake before noon,” He says it as if such a thing were a sin, moving further from the safety of the bedroom and resting his hand on the knob of the bathroom door. “Who are you and what have you done with Noct?”
“You’ll never know,” Noct says with a sudden seriousness, though it passes just as quickly when he winks, before turning back to the stove to keep watching whatever dish component he’s been tasked with.
“I think we needn’t worry too much,” Ignis pipes up in a conspiratorial tone, as if Noct couldn’t blatantly hear him. “This model is already a marked improvement.” It’s such a stupid little thing, but it knocks a proper laugh out of Prompto, a small chuckle that grows when Noct elbows Ignis in the side, saying something about a lack of loyalty in their ranks.
It feels so normal, and Prompto clings to that sensation even as he turns away from the pair to slip away into the bathroom. Let’s the image of Noctis and Iggy cooking together linger in his mind while he thoughtlessly works through his routine.
It isn’t until he goes to pick an outfit for the day, that everything grinds to a stop. Because it’s the first time since he left the bed that Ardyn weasels back into his mind. The man is out there still, waiting to guide them the rest of the way to the Meteor, which meant he was going to see Prompto.
And that thought makes the young man’s skin want to peel itself from his flesh and hideaway somewhere. Which is the very problem. Prompto had worked hard on his body, and he was proud of it. Proud of the strength he’d built up. And that showed in the clothes he’d brought along on their little bachelor road trip-turned… whatever it was now. All tank tops and cut off sleeves. Arms bared for the world to admire.
The very thought makes him feel sick.
In a near panic, Prompto wracks his brain for an alternate option. Something he can hide under, even if just to keep the nausea at bay. When the idea hits him, it’s followed by a rush of relief. One that has his voice shaky when he opens the bathroom door and pokes his head out. “Hey, uh, Noct?” He calls out tentatively. “Can I borrow your jacket? You know, the one with the-” Prompto pauses, waving his hand back and forth when he fails to find the name he’s looking for. “-big beasty on the back?”
At first black brows draw together quizzically, before Noctis ultimately shrugs. “Yeah sure, go ahead.”
“Thanks, dude!” His words come out a bit too enthusiastic but if either of the other men notice, they don’t show it. Still, the tightness squeezing around his lungs eases just a bit, let’s him take a steadying breath as he slips back into the bathroom.
But that comfortable thoughtlessness of routine is gone, ripped out of him painfully. Leaving behind awareness, and a tremor shaking through his limbs. He crosses them tightly across his chest, hoping the pressure will steady him. Will chase off the vulnerable feeling that’s flooded over the young gunman. It does little to help when Prompto turns back to the sink cabinet and the mirror poised above it, forced to take stock of himself.
His whole body shudders then, when he’s finally forced to see himself again. It feels as if he’s looking at a stranger, staring back at him with a face that looks like his own, but doesn’t feel like it. Dropping his gaze from the eyes boring through to his very core, Prompto’s attention catches— much like Ignis’ had last night —on a place beneath his chin. On an oval of reddened skin pressed into his neck and starting to take on a purpling hue.
Bile works up the back of Prompto’s throat, chasing on the heels of the spit that floods into his mouth, his stomach twisting into itself violently. In a panic Prompto’s hands fumble with the sink handles, turning the little sink faucet as high as it will go before all but throwing himself over the toilet and retching.
There’s nothing left for his stomach to toss up anymore, thoroughly emptied by now. Only the boiling fluid that sears the walls of his esophagus, burning everything in its path. Makes him cough and choke over the seat where he kneels, shoulders jerking with the motion, whole body shuddering. And all he can think of, is how badly he hopes the water splashing into the sink covers the sounds he makes.
When his heaving finally runs dry, Prompto falls back from the toilet’s edge, his back pressing against the opposite wall. Drags the back of his arm across his mouth, breaths coming in rough pants. Tries his hardest not to let them grow frantic and unsteady. Counts the second it takes to stretch his lungs to capacity, how many more to empty them again. As long as it takes until he can pull himself back together.