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“Oh, Six, that’s actually the prince!” Winifred whispers to Fred, grabbing onto his elbow and giving him a little shake. Fred swats at her until she lets go but leans obligingly over the nurse’s station. The young man who might be the prince is rushing down the hallway, hair in wild disarray, and a taller man is on his heels. The maybe-prince’s shirt is on inside out, but he doesn’t seem to care as he slams his hands onto Fred’s desk and leans over it like he’s going to jump behind the counter.
“Which room is Prompto Argentum’s!?” he asks, voice high and panicked.
“Your Highness, please calm down,” his friend—advisor?—says more calmly even as he swiftly corrects his badly-buttoned shirt. It would all be very suggestive if it wasn’t four o’clock in the morning.
Winifred looks at Fred. Fred makes a face at her, hesitating before he says, “We’re only supposed to allow family in at the moment, sir. Your Highness. Sir.”
Prince Noctis practically climbs onto the desk. “I am your prince,” he says in a dangerous tone. “And I demand information.”
“Your Highness,” Prince Noctis’ advisor sighs. He sounds tired, but not surprised. Like this is normal behavior for the Crown Prince and, well, who knows? Maybe it is. Royalty’s a bit weird.
“You need to sign in,” Winifred says quickly, because she’s pretty sure Fred will just stammer his way into unemployment if she doesn’t. “And there’s name tags.”
Prince Noctis turns his dark, narrowed eyes to her. “What. Room.”
“Sign the book, Noctis,” the advisor says, and it sounds like an order. Winifred fully expects the prince to turn on him, but instead he just grumbles and scrawls an illegible signature in the guest book. On the name tag he puts a bunch of exclamation points. Winifred isn’t brave enough to correct him. “Nurse Winifred, could you please provide us with the room number?”
“It’s, um, 2734,” Winifred says. “It’s kind of—I’ll just take you there, okay?”
“Great, let’s go,” Prince Noctis snaps. He slaps a name tag onto his advisor’s chest. It’s a bunch of question marks.
Winifred takes a deep breath and leads them to the elevators. The room they’re heading toward is practically hidden in a little side hall, quiet and unobtrusive and, to be perfectly honest, often left until the very end of the floor’s rounds. Winifred doesn’t tell the prince any of this, of course, but she does hover in the doorway after the prince and his advisor enter. In case they need help leaving again. That’s all. She’s not even remotely eavesdropping.
She’s absolutely eavesdropping.
Prompto Argentum beams brighter than the sun when he sees the prince, wincing as he tries to wave his hand with the IV in it and nearly pulls it out. Prince Noctis grabs his hand and lowers it to the bed, hovers in the way all visitors do.
“Are you okay, Prom?” the prince asks in a very soft voice.
“I’m fine,” Prompto says, coughing briefly. “It’s just the flu. And pneumonia. And a cracked rib. From the pneumonia.”
Prince Noctis’ horrified noise is drowned out by a much longer coughing fit, and when it’s over Prompto leans back in his bed and moans pitifully. And Prince Noctis brushes sweaty hair out of Prompto’s eyes and leans forward to press a lingering kiss to his forehead.
Oh. That’s why the poor thing was so frantic. Winifred hides her smile behind a hand and silently walks away, resolving to keep this to herself. It wouldn’t do for the paparazzi to catch wind of the prince’s cute boyfriend being laid up in the hospital.