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Prompto is in his bathroom. He’s on the floor in front of the sink, with his left hand gripping his right arm. He’s holding his forearm right below his elbow, and he’s holding it so tight white pricks and stars of circulation-loss. Prompto is trying to make his arm fall asleep. He wants it to just fall off.
If he were to hold his breath the house would be silent. Parents away for work; they left last week, and even Noctis had come over to hang out for a couple of days. That all ended though when Prompto shot Noct a text that he was sick, and Ignis refused to take him within thirty feet of his house. That’s what Prompto thought he needed. What he knew he needed— he couldn’t let Noctis see this. He can’t let anyone see this. He can’t let anyone see himself. He can’t even look at himself. And he tried! He gave an honest effort to finally shower, wash his face, brush his teeth, just look in the mirror, and he ended up on the ground.
Prompto doesn’t have the flu. He isn’t sick like he told Noctis. He’s just sick of himself.
He has to keep his hand where it is. His eyes are stuck on his wristband, fixated, shaking, and he’s scared about what will happen if he takes his hand away from where it is. His right arm is numb. The bathroom tile is cold. Prompto’s cold. He doesn’t know what to do.
It’s been two weeks since he’s seen Noctis. He’s hardly texted him; always claims that he’s sick, or that he’s too tired to type, or that he can’t use his phone right now, any excuse to keep Noctis out of this. There was no way he was going to let his best friend see… This. Him collapsing in on himself.
It’s not that Prompto didn’t want to see Noct by any of his faults, or even that he didn’t want to see him. He just didn’t want Noct to see what was happening to him, what he was doing. He couldn’t place if it was shame, or fear, or insecurity, or some terrible amalgamation of all. Noctis would pry in the gentle, irresistible way and Prompto can’t hide from him. He knows the passcode and the lock combinations to Prompto’s feelings, he knew him. The possibility of him hiding the situation on his face was gone the moment he texted Noct. He’s a prince. He has other things to deal with, Noctis is always stressed, Prompto can’t do that to him. Prompto’s teeth sank into his lips, hard. He didn’t deserve that from Noct.
Fingernails sank into his arm. He hardly felt it; and whether that was because he was begging to beyond be his body or his arm was falling asleep. He felt more tears drip down to his leg. He’s been here before, and it never goes well, but he always comes out being able to smile. But Prompto can’t move; he’s terrified to move. He’ll rip off his wristband again, and he’ll see it, and the last time he—
His phone vibrates in his pocket.It’s a struggle to get his hand off of his arm. His nails drag, and there are dents in his skin where his nails embedded themselves, and it hurts, but he manages to get his phone out of his pocket. He regrets it almost immediately.
noct noct joke ˃ᴗ˂, 2:30 PM:
hey, prom. Ignis is finally letting me out, and he made you soup. is it good to stop by?
Prompto almost screams.
What the hell is he supposed to say? He could definitely pull off being sick, he practically looked the part, but it was Noctis. He’d be sniffed out almost instantly. He couldn’t ask him to leave it on the porch, either, because the rain hadn’t stopped since this morning. He’s running through every sick excuse he’s ever used from elementary to high school, every line that could make anyone want to stay away from him as if there’s a good reason to be around him. He could tell him to just leave it on the porch and not come inside, he knew Ignis wouldn’t mind that in the slightest, but the rain hadn’t stopped since this morning. Prompto held his breath, which shook his ribcage like an internal earthquake. He could almost hear the rain against the roof. Almost.
You, 2:33 PM:
i appreciate it! but really its okay :) i have soup here, so you have it!
That was shit. He could mask better than that— he always is, but suddenly he’s lost all ability how. Staring blankly at games, staying in weeks-old sheets, it’s like he forgot how to do anything. Did he ever know how? His phone was on the tile next to his feet. His other hand began to grab his wristband, pull it back, and slap it back on. He began to tremble more. The idea of Noctis seeing Prompto like— like garbage, weeks old clothes, hasn’t showered in Gods knows how long, crying, shaking, otherwise incapacitated— he wanted to throw up. It made him feel sick.
It’s pathetic, He thinks, knees closing into his collapsing chest, arms wrapped around himself with his nails now scratching up and down, up and down on his biceps. This is pathetic. He can’t see this. He just can’t.
It isn’t like Noctis hasn’t seen Prompto cry before. He’s known him for three-going-on-four years, he’s seen him ugly cry over the endings of videogames, failed tests, general insecurity, and it isn’t like he hasn’t seen Noctis cry either. He’s constantly under so much pressure all the time, with being a damn prince and going to school and this marriage that neither the groom nor bride is comfortable with, they’re best friends, they’re… maybe past that, maybe, but this is different. He hasn’t seen him this bad before. And Ignis? The thought of Ignis coming close to a snot-nosed Prompto is a laughable delusion, even if it was just from crying. It all made sense for Prompto to just stay here, on the floor of his bathroom, until he could move. And if that was never, then so fucking be it.
He was so busy with raking his nails down his arms that he missed the next *bzzz*s of his phone. It was the texts popping up again to remind him to check it that caught his eye.
noct noct joke ˃ᴗ˂, 2:35 PM:
Prom, seriously, what’s going on?
noct noct joke ˃ᴗ˂, 2:35 PM:
are you upset with me or something? did i do something wrong?
Prompto blinked. His thumb scrolled up to check the chat, read over the conversation, look at every word Prompto had said and every response Noctis had given to see where any of that could come from. He felt dizzy.
“What?” He whispered to himself.
You, 2:40 PM:
what?
noct noct joke ˃ᴗ˂, 2:42 PM:
look, i don’t know if you’re just trying to avoid me or if you’re really that sick because if you’ve had a bug for this long you really need to go to a doctor. but if you don’t want me over for some reason can you please just
noct noct joke ˃ᴗ˂, 2:42 PM:
tell me why?
Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, Prompto drops his phone. He scrambles to grab it again, drops it again, and lets out the weakest cry in the world. Once he gets the soap of a phone in his hands, he’s already typing an apology, how he was getting better, how Noctis has never ever, ever wronged him, but the moment he blinks he realizes it was all illegible. Anger towards himself begins to bubble in his head. How could he let Noct think that? He scrolls back through the messages, sees how little effort he put into replies, the endless excuses— what was he doing? The clatter of a plastic phone case echos in the bathroom again as Prompto grips his hair. Stupid, stupid, stupid, how could he not even take into consideration how Noctis was seeing this? He was so caught up in his own bullshit he forgot how to communicate with his friend. Prompto wanted to punch himself in the face.
The next buzz of his phone makes him jump so hard he hits his head on the sink. Well, that’s sort of what he wanted.
noct noct joke ˃ᴗ˂, 2:46 PM:
prompto, come on
noct noct joke ˃ᴗ˂, 2:42 PM:
what happened?
Prompto sobs into his knees. He can’t do this. What is he supposed to do? His head spins even with his eyes screwed tight, and still, all he can think about is how atrocious he is. There’s no way he can’t see it now, with Noctis’s obvious guilt that’s obviously his fault, his wrist, how annoying and clingy he was, what the hell was he supposed to say?
Noct is calling him.
It probably rings three or four times while Prompto stares at it. He’s staring like a deer in the headlights, completely paralyzed until his finger hovered over the answer button. Leaving him on read and then denying his call was only going to make things worse. He turns his head and coughed as hard as he could, trying to clear his voice, steady his breathing, anything to make it seem like he was just a little ill while he answered the phone and put it on speaker.
Immediately, a worried Noctis was going, “Prom?”
He could hear rain on the other side of the phone much louder than he could hear it in his house. Prompto tries so hard to take in a normal inhale.
“Hey, dude,” he says, groggily, shakily, miserably, and if he didn’t want to slink out of his skin before he does now. “Sorry, didn’t— didn’t, uh, s-see your messages? I fe-fe—” Prompto bites his bottom list and instantly tastes iron. He’s stuttering. He hears Noctis take the phone away and say something else, presumably Ignis, and he’s positive he’s going to die of embarrassment. “I fell asleep w-wi-with it open, sorry!” He tries so hard to laugh, to cough, to cover up the crying as he asks in koi, “What’s up?”
“You,” Noctis says in a rush, “you sound… awful, what’s going on? Are you— are you that sick?”
“No— no, actually, I-I’m getting better!” He tries to laugh again, and it’s hoarse, and he feels like a failure. “Nothing you d-did, ju-just don’t wa-wa—” Prompto puts a hand over his mouth to sob. He can hardly breathe. “Just don’t want you to catch it, bud.”
“I’m getting you a doctor.”
Prompto squeaks, ”What?”
“If you’re that sick I’m getting you a doctor. You sound— Prompto, you sound bad, let me get you help. Ignis is already getting in touch with the best ones in—”
"No!” Prompto shouts his voice cracks, and his hands slam on the tile. That’s when he openly starts sobbing. “I’m n-n-not sick, I ne-ever wa-as I-I just—”
“I’m outside,” Noctis says instantly, and Prompto hears a car door open, “Is the door unlocked? Can I come in?”
Prompto sobs. The offer is so warm, and he can feel it wrapping around his shoulder blades like a promise of a warm blanket out of a dryer. It’s too sweet for him to take, he’s too much to take, Prompto doesn’t deserve this, he can do this himself, he doesn’t need him to be even more stressed. Six, was he stressed about Prompto being mad at him the whole time, Prompto shrinks more under his sink, his face over his hands.
“Prompto?” Noctis tests over the phone. “Prompto, at least tell me you’re still there.”
He sounds panicked and he doesn’t know what to do. He cries behind his hands, his knees shake together, and he cries. He hears another sound of a car door closing and a long stretch of silence. He doesn’t know if Noctis is waiting for a reply or if he doesn’t know what to say. Either way, it hurts Prompto’s lungs. It’s embarrassing. This is embarrassing.
“You can’t,” Prompto chants behind his hand, a couple, then triple, then a few more times, before saying, “You— you nee-need to go home. I’m sorry.”
“Prompto.”
Noctis sounds steady. Noctis sounds like whatever he’s about to say it’s set in stone like he’s making a law right here and now presumably at Prompto’s front door. He sounds cool and collected despite breathing as if he just did a short jog. Then in the same tone, he simply states, “I’m not going to leave until I know you’re okay. Not unless you really need me to.”
Suddenly, Prompto is slumped against his sink. His left hand is covering the upper part of right bicep; that’s what stung the most, now, besides his eyes that were almost too swollen to see anything through. Again, weakly, he laughs, he sobs, before he just mutters, “Door’s unlocked.”
He hears it swing open not two seconds later.
Noctis doesn’t even take off his boots by the sounds of it. He can hear the squish of rain-soaked shoes against his floor, and he hears a hurried call of, “Prompto?”
Prompto takes a deep breath to try and call back, but he just ends into a sob. He lurches over and holds his knees, and before he can stop himself he yells to the floor, “In here.”
Squeaky boots on wooden floors and just like that, Noctis is in the hall between Prompto’s bedroom and bathroom. His eyes go to his room, which makes Prompto cringe because it’s filthy, and then his eyes land on something Prompto would call much filthier. They make eye contact.
Noctis practically slides into his bathroom, hands reaching out to him, eyes filled with confusion and fear and Prompto feels sick. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault.
“Prompto— holy shit, what happened?” Noctis is reaching out and then pulling back, unsure if he can touch Prompto, and he registers this both as him respecting his boundaries and him being repulsed by what he sees, “What can I do?”
“I— I, uh, I-I,” Prompto shakes, and his hand clutches. harder over his bicep. He forces a smile. He doesn’t know why, he already knows the jig is up, but he felt like if he at least didn’t try to ease Noct’s nerve, he would’ve failed even more. “It’s okay, it’s— it’s—”
Slowly, Noctis just shakes his head. He adjusts himself to sitting with one leg closed in and the other bent up, and he holds his hand out for Prompto to take at his choice. His eyes go back and forth between looking at Prompto’s face and scanning him, trying to make sure he’s okay. “Come on, Prom,” He says quietly, “it’s okay.”
Prompto’s trembling. He can’t take the sincere look in Noctis’s eyes, the gentle pleading to let him help, the familiarity of his voice and his hand, and how he hasn’t seen him in weeks when they usually spend days together and he just… ever so slowly takes his left hand off his right arm. Slowly, slowly, slowly reaches out towards Noctis’s hand. Noct even lifts up his hand just a little, reaches for him, before his eyes land on his arm. Immediately his other hand is up in the air, and quickly Prompto goes ”Don’t.”
“You’re hurt,” He pushes,
“J-just scratches,” he heaves, “no potion, *please*, just— just—”
Instead of grabbing Noct’s hand, he grabs his arms. That’s Noct’s cue to pull him in, which is Prompto’s cue to crumble completely. Disgusting Prompto in perfect Noctis’s arms. He thinks his skin is going to burn off, like it has to until he feels Noct’s hand smoothing down his spine, and feels him pull him in tight and hears him go, “I got you, it’s okay.”
It’s like he has the gentlest brain freeze in his life. Fire and tarnish and war all gently calmed with a single graceful hand and Prompto’s mind went empty. He cries, oh he cries, and Noct cradles him against his chest. Only then does he hear the door close. He doesn’t care. The next few minutes, the only thing Prompto knows is that he’s melted into Noctis and that he’s sorry. There isn’t a moment Noct stops moving his hand, head on top of Prompto’s probably greasy hair, and it’s as if Prompto has no choice but to be comforted. He cries past being drained of tears.
When he’s more still in Noct’s arms he feels the prince pat his shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Prompto says wetly, sniffing loudly, and sighed a fake laugh at how gross he was, “Sooo, how’s *your* day goin’?”
“Prompto,” Noct tests, then sighs, and he gently presses his fingers against his shoulders comfortingly. “I need to know what happened.”
“I, uh— I just— not you!” Prompto jumps back quickly. “Not you! Nothing you did! I’ve just… well, felt, kind of, like, uh— you see, it’s just been sort of hard and, uhm—”
“Okay, okay, we don’t have to talk now, but…” Noctis furrows his brow. “Your arm, you gotta let me—”
“It’s scratches, a potion would be a waste,” Prompto said, “I— Noct, can we please—”
“Later,” Noctis finished, reaching into his pocket. “We can figure this out later. For now, can I just…”
He slowly takes his arm and reaches his bandana out of his pocket. It’s always hanging out of his pocket; it’s become one of his daily things, almost like Prompto’s sweatband only less … like Prompto’s sweatband. Just one of Noct’s new fashion-always whenever he leaves the house. But now, as if it was just a normal bandage, he carefully wraps it around Prompto’s bicep. He ties it gently on his underarm, and Prompto can’t stop staring at it.
“There,” Noctis sounds somewhat satisfied, “that’ll do, for now.”
Prompto is sitting on his couch. Noctis is next to him, he has an arm wrapped around his shoulders with his phone in his hand. Prompto has his phone out, too. They’re playing King's Knight, and Prompto genuinely can’t comprehend how he got here.
A lot happened between the bathroom and the living room. A lot of talking and crying and pushing and pulling and other stuff Prompto doesn’t remember right. It’s all a haze of Noctis’s gentle voice and his soft arms. He’s happy right now and looking up, Noct seems relaxed. They had just sat down before Prompto remembered Noctis rarely travels alone, and he knew someone else had come inside. Also, he smells something cooking.
“Ignis?” Prompto chirps over the couch, pushing up on his palms to look over the cushions. To be honest, he’s a little flustered; if Ignis knows Prompto lives like this, will he still be allowed around Noct? “What’re you doing?”
There wasn’t a response. Prompto started to slowly shrink back behind the pillows and just be content with various cooking noises and smells before Noctis turned his head and called out, “Iggy.”
It was immediate. The consistent kitchen background-noise suddenly ceased, all for the buzz of the oven, just for Ignis’s head to peek around the corner and ask, “Did you say something, Noctis?” Then he blinks, and his eyes land on Prompto. They don’t harden in the usual, formal way they do when he usually sees Prompto. This time, he just sees him, and says, “Oh, and hello Prompto. Apologies for the unannounced appearance; the Regalia isn’t exactly comfortable in the rain. But you seem to be feeling better.”
“Uh,” Prompto falters, because Noctis doesn’t automatically answer him, and that means it’s his conversation now. Prompto is bad with conversations; Noct has said Ignis is the same, but sometimes Prompto just gets the idea he just doesn’t like him. If he didn’t, though, he would’ve stayed in the car. It is comfortable in the rain, it’s always comfortable. What’s going on? “Thanks— thank you, yeah, I am.”
“Noctis?” Ignis chimed as usual, “Did you need something?”
“What’re you making, again?”
“Ah, yes—” Ignis crossed his way to the couch and for some reason, Prompto feels the need to shrink back even more, but he doesn’t. Ignis pushes his glasses up. “Peanut butter and chocolate chip, right?”
He’s looking at Prompto. Why is he looking at Prompto when he says this? What question is this? Prompto sounds like a broken record, stuttering before Noct looks at him.
“That’s what you like, isn’t it?”
“Wait!” Prompto jumped up. “Wait, no, Noctis, don’t make him *cook* for me, I—”
“I’m baking,” Ignis interrupted. “And Noctis didn’t tell me to do anything.”
Noctis isn’t even looking anymore. He’s back to his game, and with some squinting Prompto can deduct that’s the truth. He slumped a bit. Ignis was just … doing this.
“Oh. I—”
“They’ll be done in fifteen minutes,” He finished, and then he was back in the kitchen.
Prompto stares at where he was. Now he *can* identify the smell; sugar, chocolate, peanut butter … he fumbles with his bandana on his arm. He blinks hard.
“He made sure to pick those stuff up on our way here,” Noctis says out of nowhere, not even looking at Prompto. “He remembered when you mentioned— hey! Hey, don’t start crying again, it’s okay!”