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Today, Prompto's wings are gold. The feathers that ripple in the warm updraft of Insomnia's sky are longer than his hand and tinged with the faintest hint of russet brown, and he can spend almost thirty minutes gliding under his own power before he starts to descend. Each beat of his wings sends a rush of air swirling through his hair and clothes, but he doesn't mind. He'll never mind this.
"Hey! Freak!"
Prompto looks up from his notebook and drags a thick line over the wings he's drawn in the bottom left corner. He hears the can before he sees it; A sharp, tinny whistling, hollow and thin. He doesn't duck in time, and winces when the can strikes his shoulder.
"Gods, he even answers to it," someone says. He turns. He doesn't recognize the boys on the other side of the school courtyard, but he sees the tawny, fawn-colored shade of their wings, one greyer than the other, folded at their backs.
"I heard he cut them off himself," one of the boys says in a stage whisper. "Didn't want anyone to see what they looked like."
"Yeah, right. I heard--"
"I heard that if you don't shut the fuck up," drawls a voice over Prompto's shoulder, "I'll kick your balls up to your teeth."
Prompto looks up at the scrawny, pale boy standing behind him and grins. Prince Noctis always looks smaller when his wings are unfurled, and they are now, curving slightly to pull Prompto into his protection. They're a beautiful, glossy black, the color of ink, so dark that it looks like you could sink into them and disappear forever.
"That was a terrible threat, dude," Prompto tells him.
"Whatever, it did the job." Noct sits next to him with a little difficulty, as his wings, reflecting his mood, aren't quick to fold at his back. He places a hand on Prompto's shoulder, careful not to graze over the smooth, unmarred surface of his vest, under which the thick scars where Prompto's wings should be pulse with heat as though the wound were raw.
Today, Prompto's wings are gold.
---
Today, Prompto's wings are grey as ash. Ash is a deceptive tone, seemingly drab and boring, belonging to someone with a soul too tired and weary to make a mark on the world. But Prompto's wings have flecks of white, or orange, of royal black at the roots. Like the ash that lies over the embers of a fire, Prompto's wings are the color of possibility.
"You'll be fine on your own?" his mother asks, as she and her husband strap slings over their waists. They're heading out to a week-long company trip near Galdin Quay, and really, they don't have to ask. Prompto has spent more time alone in the house than in their company since before he can remember. He's always fine.
"Yeah," he says. "Leave the door open, I'm going for a run."
He files out after his parents, whose orange and blue wings make the grass of their small yard bend as they take off into the night sky. He watches them for a breath, then locks the door after him and starts jogging along the cracked and crumbling sidewalk. The beat of his shoes are heavy and loud in his ears, but when he looks up, he can see the silhouette of wings soaring and flapping against a golden sky.
Today, Prompto's wings are grey as ash.
---
Today, Prompto's wings are thin, and weak, and a washed-out greenish-white that looks sickly and small against his back. They shiver in the slightest breeze, they're not nearly strong enough to carry his weight, and they twitch spasmodically whenever he tries to speak. But they're better than nothing.
Prompto lies in bed and ignores the sound of the doorbell. It doesn't matter. Whoever it is can't be looking for him: They're probably asking after one of his parents, who won't be home for days. Let the bell ring. Let it ring.
The scars at his back feel unnaturally hot. They itch, but he can't bring himself to touch them.
A crack. Voices. Footsteps. A creaking of the floor in the hall outside.
"Oh, hells," says a low, familiar voice behind him. He slowly rolls onto his back, his hideous, disgusting back, and sees Ignis Scientia in the doorway, his green and gold wings nearly hiding Prince Noctis from view.
"How long has this been going on?" he asks. He strides to the bed and touches Prompto's clammy forehead. "When was the last time you ate? Do you feel warm? Ill?"
"I'm okay," Prompto says, and the lie is thick enough to choke him.
"Let's get you cleaned up," Ignis says, and Noct chimes in with, "You'll be staying with me tonight, Prom."
He can hardly bring himself to care.
Today, Prompto's wings are thin, and weak, and hardly large enough to fly.
---
Today, Prompto's wings are blue. A deep, perfect blue, so dark they're almost black, but with a shimmer of color that is so radiant it's blinding. He is almost swallowed up by them when they unfurl, and when they curl around him, when he feels the soft brush of feathers against his skin, it's like coming home.
"You sure you're okay with this?" Gladio asks. Prompto nods.
"I won't promise that I'm not gonna drop you," Noct tells him.
"Personally, I think you should all sit down, says Ignis.
They're driving down one of the long roads of Duscae, on their way to Cape Caem, and Prompto's arms are locked in Gladio and Noct's steady grip. They are half crouched on the backseat of the Regalia, the wind whipping through Gladio's brown and black wings, ruffling Noct's feathers into a frenzy. Ignis huffs and scowls, but when Noct gives the order, he steps on the gas.
Noct and Gladio's wings unfurl, and Prompto shouts in alarm as he is dragged out of the speeding car and into the air.
Gods alone know how Noct and his Shield are able to get airborne when they're stuck so close together, but they just manage it, soaring up past the warm currents of wind that allow them to level out and wheel, lazy and wide, over the dark green hills of Duscae. Prompto shouts again, a wordless cry of triumph. He's breathless, terrified, and all he can hear is the occasional beat of wings, the hiss of the wind, and Gladio's warm laughter as Prompto smiles so wide his jaw aches.
Today, Prompto's wings are blue.