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In all their time on the road so far, Ignis couldn’t remember a single moment in which Prompto had been as badly damaged as right now.
He was covered in cuts and bruises. Head to toe, Ignis couldn’t place a finger on his body and not be within an inch of a wound. Magic only got him so far, and he was the most experienced in the group with nursing.. Someone had to clean the poor boy up before he got infected. That was the last thing he needed right now.
Prompto made no noise of protest when Ignis asked him to remove his shirt, but the weight of discomfort was heavy in the air. The blond turned his head, chin tucked in against his shoulder, his eyes opened and closed with such slowness that Ignis was concerned he’d fall asleep were it not for the ache in his body and the sting of the medicine over his sores.
Astral’s knew the last time he’d rested since being separated from them..
He worked in silence. Deft fingers moving a cotton pad soaked in disinfecting alcohol over the bigger gashes, a menthol-smelling salve covering the smaller areas, gauze and bandages applied with precise care over everything. The mumble of Gladio and Noctis far from the tent and the soft crackle of the fire outside echoed in the hanging tension.
If Ignis prided himself on anything, it was his ability to remain calm. Under control. Stoic at even the most uncertain of times. If Ignis could pride himself on anything.. It was swallowing the burning lump in his throat every time he turned Prompto and found a new, deepening welt or another gash along his skin. It was pretending his mouth didn’t run dry with the way Prompto’s chest heaved labored breaths and his lips quivered, pressed into a thin line to not make a sound, no matter how badly the alcohol stung. It was how his hands trembled with an anger boiling up in the bottom of his stomach that threatened to rip right up through him in a scream, a yell, storming through the camp and out and away and --
He’d kill him, he’d kill him, he’d kill him. He could see his dagger shoved to the hilt in his stupid, disgusting throat. Blood bubbling from his mouth, and him laughing that sickening, haughty laugh even as he trembled and clutched at Ignis’ hand…
If Ignis prided himself on anything, it was pausing, hands holding the two ends of a bandage, and taking in a deep breath. Cooling the flames in him. Stilling his hands and praying, hoping that Prompto didn’t notice the shake in them. If he did.. He said nothing. Ignis couldn’t be sure if he was glad for the silence or not. His chest ached with the need to say something… anything. But what could he?
Prompto didn’t make a sound until Ignis moved for his gloves. His wrists were worn raw from the bindings keeping him up, and Ignis needed to bandage them as well, but… Instinctive reaction to the fabric that kept his secret so easily hidden. The boy inhaled sharply, breath catching up in his throat and mouth open like he wished to beg him not to, but again. Saying nothing. Ignis paused, looked up at him with head tilted, his one good eye searching the blurred but familiar features of Prompto’s face.
“We already know, Prom..” Those lips pressed together again, Ignis heard his breath return. “I won’t look, but I need to clean the wounds.” He didn’t make a sound of consent, but moved himself, carefully sliding his gloves off and to the side. Ignis took one more deep breath, and set to patting his wrists down and wrapping them up. As promised, both eyes closed. He worked from memory of the width of his arms, the depth of the wound, his own practice in healthcare.
The gloves went back on just as quietly, pulled up by Ignis, secured around the bandages. Prompto dropped hands in his lap, and Ignis sat back on his heels.
Prompto wouldn’t look at him, and for Ignis’ slowly failing eyesight, he couldn’t make heads or tails of where his expression was going. The silence grew in the tent again, until Ignis couldn’t bear it.
“Prompto…” The softest whisper of a word, unable to be heard by the others waiting outside. Prompto lifted his head, slowly, facing Ignis, and nearly receding inside of himself. Ignis’ brow creased. He couldn’t possibly imagine the kind of pain he was harboring inside him at this moment. Couldn’t imagine it. But could feel it. Tangible in the way he breathed, the way his thumbs slowly circled themselves in his lap, the way his mind seemed torn in ten pieces, focused anywhere but right here. Maybe Ignis would never know the source of his pain… and maybe that was for the best.
Prompto’s mouth twitched. Eyes fall closed once more, and his head shook side to side.
Exhausted.. Ignis knows. He nods. It’s a quick movement. Up, off his knees and forward, arms around Prompto, pulling him into his chest and settling back again so Prompto’s weight leans forward. He’s stiff as a board. Tense, trembling under Ignis’ sudden touch and then… Ignis feels the break. It’s all at once, a tidal wave crashing through the younger and allowing himself to give in.
His body goes limp on Ignis, every limb in him and every bone slumping down, face hiding in his shoulder. All but his hands, which climb up, fist themselves in Ignis’ shirt until they’re white knuckled, and cling on for the entire worth of his frail, wounded body. The trembles increase. Shoulders shaking, body practically convulsing with the suddenness of allowing himself to break down. Sobs came through against his shoulder. Heaving, high pitched wails only barely muffled that shot even more quakes through his body with every heave of his chest. He brought a hand up to cup the back of his head, holding him closer to him, fingers carding through messy locks and pressing into his scalp.
Ignis could do nothing but hold on. Hold and rock from side to side, and bite down on his lip to keep himself quiet. Just hold him, just hold him… What words could even possibly be said. More eloquent than most, but solutions and answers escape his mouth. It wouldn’t help…
What’s done was done and all Ignis could offer was whatever minute comforts his companionship and patience supplied.
It faded out eventually. Sobs into breathless hiccups and tremors into boneless joints and limbs. Ignis waited until his fists uncurled and pressed into flat hands on his chest before he moved. An arm stayed around his back, supporting him, and the other scooped under his legs. He moved his own legs so they crossed under him, settled Prompto into the divot of his lap, and continued to cradle him.
The silence continued. Ignis had given extremely stern orders for the others not to come in unless otherwise instructed, not wanting them disturbing him while he was tending to Prompto’s wounds. And now glad for the moment to sit in the quiet and just… hold him. The hiccups melted into sniffles, and Prompto’s eyes closed once more.
“Prom…” Still, ever as quiet. “I am... glad we got you out of there safe. I’m glad you’re home.”
Home. In his arms. In all of their arms. In the stifling air of the tent around them. Home. Here. Where he belonged.
He knew Prompto got the intended message.
A fist twisted into his shirt again, just for a moment, and the blond nodded.
“Thank you, Ignis.” Tone reverberating with all the tiredness in his body.
If there was anything Ignis could pride himself on, Ignis wasn’t one to cry.
Those emotions stated finely capped behind his exterior. Years of training to keep himself collected at all all times.
If there was anything Ignis could pride himself on…
If there was anything…
He caved.
Back bending over Prompto. Arms around him lifting him up closer. And glasses filling with water.