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Prompto stands in a room, shivering and naked, resisting the urge to break his neutral pose and rub his arms in a pitiful attempt to generate warmth. He's not alone in this vulnerable moment; two doctors are with him, as they are once a month. Poking and prodding him, weighing him, measuring every part of his body to check that everything is just right. After each step they pull away to write their findings down on an official looking document.
It used to be once every six months that they did this, but since Prompto started giving results that they didn't approve of, they were ordered to increase the frequency of the little “check-ups”.
Besides the doctors are two others. Prompto's own father is sitting off to the side in a comfortable looking arm chair, his face lined with a mixture of boredom and irritation. Emperor of the empire of Niflheim, Iedolas Aldercapt, observing the Prince's medical examination like he's having a prized cow judged. He does not smile when Prompto looks to him for comfort, so he stopped trying years ago.
Ardyn Izunia is the last man in the room, standing dutifully next to the seat of his emperor. Chancellor of Niflheim, a tall and handsome man with hair the colour of wine, dressed in heavy robes that make Prompto quite jealous while suffering the current room temperature. Ardyn does smile when Prompto looks to him, he's the only one who ever smiles, and so that's where Prompto will go to seek comfort after the unpleasant experience ends.
The doctors finally put down the measuring tapes and finish up their writing. One passes the paper to Prompto's father, whose expression becomes increasingly more irritated as his eyes scan over it. He looks up at his son accusingly.
“You've lost more weight.”
Prompto's pose breaks. He hugs himself and looks at his feet, wishing to be anywhere else in the world right now. He knows he's lost weight, he can see if in the mirror. He's supposed to be gaining weight, putting on muscle, growing strong, a future emperor can't be weak, but he just...
“...I'm sorry.” Is all he can offer in defence. Any time he's tried to explain himself in the past, it's fallen on deaf ears and steely eyes, so he doesn't bother.
“If I may, your majesty,” Ardyn pipes up cheerfully, his voice full of warmth and amicability, “Perhaps our young prince might be more inclined to take care of himself if he had someone monitor his meals?”
“Hmph. Very well. I take it you're volunteering?”
Of course he's volunteering. Ardyn ALWAYS volunteers. The chancellor's smile widens as he places a hand over his heart. “I will endeavour to serve him to the extent of my capabilities.”
“Serving him will get us nowhere.” The emperor’s response is cold as he stands. The doctors begin packing up their equipment in silence. “My orders are the only ones you should worry about. Force the food down his gullet with your hands, I want this nonsense put a stop to.”
“Of course.” A theatrical bow from Ardyn is the emperor’s and the doctor's cues to leave, leaving Prompto and Ardyn alone in the window-less examination room. The prince is so cold that his feet have turned blue; they're hurting now, but they're somehow numb at the same time, and he can no longer hold back the intensity of the shivers. He looks around for his clothes, they were taken from him at the start of the exam, and Ardyn chooses that moment to come up behind him and place his heavy cloak on the prince's thin shoulders.
Prompto allows it, grateful, desperate for warmth. He draws the garment tighter around him, and Ardyn spins him around to face him. His face is a pleasant mask, soft eyes and a soft smile. There should be concern on his face, that's what Prompto wants to see, but instead it's something resembling... Excitement. Anticipation, even.
He likes when Prompto needs him.
Prompto looks down again and repeats his pitiable apology. “I'm sorry.”
“People who are sorry don't keep doing what they're sorry for.”
“Please don't force feed me, I'll eat okay? I'll do whatever you want, you can watch, just-”
Ardyn plants a feather-light kiss on the Prince's forehead. It's so gentle he barely feels it, but it silences him immediately. He feels like he's going to cry as he allows himself to fall into Ardyn's arms, the only source of warmth and comfort he's ever seen in this world. Ardyn kisses him again, harder, and strokes his hair, unswayed by his misery.
“Orders are orders, poor little prince.”
Bastard. How he loves this.
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