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I’m gonna guard what’s left of the good in us
When the ash blocks out the sky
And hold you with my left hand
And ball up my right
And if the bastards come for both of us
I’ll be right there by your side, I’m by your side
- the wonder years, “the ocean grew hands to hold me”
Though Gladio’s heart nearly stops cold in his chest when they turn the corner and see Prompto hanging there on that wall where Ardyn left him strung up like some kind of macabre scarecrow, it becomes thankfully near-immediately clear that he’s still alive. His head rolls to the side and his chin lifts slightly when Noctis, who’d taken off sprinting the second they’d come within eyesight of their missing friend, starts yanking on the thick restraints holding him up. It’s enough to make Gladio slightly dizzy with relief, even as he reaches over Noctis’s shoulder to add his own strength to the effort.
While Gladio works on yanking the straps over his wrists until they loosen enough for Prompto’s hands to slip through, Noctis fumbles around for a release mechanism of some kind. Behind them, Ignis is asking questions, an anxious impatience in his voice, wanting to know if Prompto’s okay, if he’s conscious, if he seems hurt. Answering would take more time and concentration than they can spare, given it’ll be a lot easier to evaluate Prompto’s condition when he’s no longer pinned to the wall like some kind of trophy on display. When Noctis finds the latch he’s looking for and pulls, the wide strap pulled tight around Prompto’s waist opens and he goes straight to the floor. Or, at least he would have, if it weren’t for Noctis, getting in as fast as he can and catching him before he can hit the ground.
Noctis immediately snares Prompto in a tight grip, pulling him close with one arm around his waist and the other pressed across his shoulders to brace the back of his neck with a shaking hand. Gone down onto the ground with a leg folded under him and the other sprawled carelessly out on the dingy floor, bracketing Prompto’s bent knees, Noctis holds him like he’d been scared he’d never get the chance to again. Probably, Gladio thinks, because he had been.
They all had been.
The thought is enough to spur Gladio to speak, kneeling down and asking, “Hey, are you alright?”
Prompto doesn’t answer fast enough to stop Ignis from chiming in as well, joining Gladio on the floor. “Is he hurt? Prompto, do you need help?”
For a long, frightening moment, the only response given is the sound of Prompto breathing in loud, ragged pants into where his face is tucked against the collar of Noctis’s shirt. A little whine escapes him after a particularly deep inhale, and Gladio hurts when he hears it, like someone’s dug their knuckles deep into a bruise beat into his sternum. What’s worse is what Prompto says when he does manage to speak, his voice barely audible and shaking all the way through.
“I- I’m fine.”
Which is absolutely, without a doubt, the greatest load of bullshit Gladio’s heard in his life, and he remembers Noctis as a teenager. Ignis obviously shares this opinion, if the incredulous scoff he lets out is any indication. It doesn’t seem like either Prompto or Noctis hears it. Noctis hasn’t said anything, seeming to still be knocked wordless by everything going on, no space in his mind for doing anything but keeping his grip on Prompto from slipping even an inch. He’s breathing almost as hard as Prompto is, but silently, shoulders moving enough with every in-hold-out that it shifts Prompto’s head.
Gladio recognizes the pattern of Noctis’s breathing. He can practically hear Ignis’s voice counting, walking Prompto through a panic attack when they’d been younger, helping him keep from hyperventilating. Noctis had obviously paid attention to it, but the fact that he still remembers the pattern clearly enough to help himself now makes Gladio feel briefly proud. The pride quickly twists into a quiet lurch of guilt for how hard he’s been on the kid lately. That thought is shoved away, unhelpful to anyone at the moment. Besides, something else rises to the forefront of his attention near immediately, something Prompto says in that quiet, hoarse little voice taking all the air out of the room.
“Were you worried about me?”
It’s sorely tempting to Gladio to tell himself he heard that wrong. He entertains the idea for a few moments, just long enough to hear Ignis inhale sharply next to him and to see Noctis’s body jerk like he’s been struck. Noctis loosens the embrace for the first time since he caught Prompto, pulling back just far enough to get a look at his face. The question seems to have knocked him speechless, mouth hanging slightly open, not responding either to the affirmative or the negative.
Of course, Prompto seems to take this reaction exactly the wrong way. He seems to shrink in on himself, head ducking down and bruised shoulders hunching. It’s just enough of an indication of where his head’s at that Noctis’s face twists into an even deeper shade of heartbreak. With a wordless noise at the back of his throat, Noctis pulls Prompto back into his arms, gripping him even tighter than before and muttering into his shoulder, “What kind of question is that, of course I was. We all were.”
To call the exhausted exhale Prompto lets out a ‘laugh’ would be wildly overstating things, but from his vantage point, Gladio can see just the barest hint of a smile on the small portion of Prompto’s face not hidden in the crook of Noctis’s neck. The kid’s gotta be beyond tired and hurting all over, even if the bruising and cuts they can see are the worst of it, and it seems to be out of his power to return the embrace. Instead he goes limp in it, any attempt at holding himself up gone now, slumped completely against Noctis’s chest.
“Oh. Right,” Prompto breathes, voice unsteady in a different way now. “Course you were.”
Gladio can feel himself becoming antsy, crouching there on the ground and waiting. They need to give Prompto a quick once over, make sure he isn’t hurt too badly, and then move, get him somewhere safe where they can regroup, take care of him and figure out what to do now.
There’s just one problem with that plan. There’s absolutely no way Prompto is in any condition to get himself anywhere under his own power at the moment, and while Gladio’s seen Noctis pick him up before in a handful of circumstances, he probably can’t carry him as far as they’re going to need to go. The obvious solution is for Gladio to carry him, but there’s a problem with that, too. It would require Noctis to let Prompto go first, and that doesn’t seem likely to happen.
Shuffling a little closer, bracing his hands on his knees to keep from reaching out prematurely and spooking either of the boys, Gladio tries to get the ball rolling. “I need you to let me take Prompto so we can get him somewhere safe,” he says, but Noctis doesn’t seem to be in a mood to cooperate. He doesn’t say anything petulant or stubborn, just holds Prompto tighter, shaking fingers woven through bright blond hair dimmed from its usual shade by blood and dirt. The look on Noctis’s face, a mix of angry and scared that tells Gladio he’s not fully tracking what’s going on, dares anyone to try taking Prompto from him.
A distraction provides itself in the form of Ignis asking what’s going on, giving Gladio something to focus on other than mounting frustration. He rises from his crouch and gives a little tug at Ignis’s elbow, pulling them both a few paces away to explain without being overheard. Running through the situation in hushed tones, Gladio quickly outlines for Ignis the way they’d found Prompto strung up on the wall, that he doesn’t seem to badly hurt but it’s hard to tell at the moment, given that-
“Noct’s got him, won’t let me near him. Which is a problem, cause I gotta take him so we can get him somewhere safe. So if you’ve got any ideas, now’s the time.”
Blessedly, it seems that Ignis does, in fact, have an idea of how to proceed. Because of course he does. It seems that Gladio finds new ways to be grateful for him by the day.
Ignis crouches back down next to the boys on the floor, close enough to be within arm’s reach. He says Noctis’s name quietly and gently, which gets Prompto’s attention instead.
Somehow still conscious even though he doesn’t seem entirely with it, Prompto’s head shifts when Ignis speaks, dull blue eyes squinting at him from Noctis’s shoulder. He reaches out with what looks like an enormous effort, hand fumbling around until managing to make it out of Noctis’s hold far enough to clumsily find Ignis’s and grab onto it.
“Hey, Iggy.” Prompto’s voice is a barely audible rasp, but it’s still unmistakably him, and something in Gladio’s lungs loosens to hear it. Noctis’s fingers flex where they’re woven through his hair, an unconscious adjustment acknowledging the fact that he’d spoken, that Prompto’s not okay but he’s alive and still enough of himself that ‘okay’ is within reach. Ignis squeezes the outreached hand lightly in both of his own, barely tightening his hold enough to be seen.
Then, maintaining the contact with his left hand, Ignis lets go with his right and lifts it up to tug the glove covering it off with his teeth. It’s a shockingly undignified move from him, made even more so when he lets the glove drop carelessly to the ground. His now bared fingers return to Prompto’s hand, moving a light touch upwards over his forearm, likely searching for clear signs of serious damage. Ignis’s face crumples into a worried grimace when he touches the abraded skin of Prompto’s wrist, eliciting a very faint, pained hiss. It’s probably the only reaction Prompto has enough energy left to give, and it draws a soft apology from Ignis, who abandons the search for obvious injury and settles back on his heels.
“Noctis,” Ignis says again, moving his free hand now to grasp the prince’s shoulder. It twitches under his grip, showing that at least Noctis has noticed, and judging by the lack of a violent reaction, he knows who it is that’s talking to him. “You have to let go. We need to take Prompto somewhere safe, somewhere we can assess the extent of his injuries and see to them.” Ignis’s voice drops lower, gone down into a comforting register meant to persuade Noctis, to help him understand that they’re only trying to help. That they want what’s best for Prompto too. “I know you want him cared for, and we can’t do that here. So you need to let him go.”
Prompto himself is either too exhausted or too embarrassed by the whole situation and the attention on him to offer any of his own input. He just lays there in Noctis’s arms, his head lolling with no intention behind it, face pressed back into Noctis’s neck. It’s a state of complete surrender, turning complete control over to the people surrounding him, and it’s hard to look at. Gladio can barely stomach seeing it so blatantly displayed in front of him, how much Prompto trusts them. Not when that information has to exist at the same time and in the same space as that question had - Were you worried about me?
The stalemate of Ignis’s persuasive cajoling meeting Noctis’s scared curl around the precious burden he guards protectively is interrupted when whatever reserves of energy he’d used to greet Ignis seem to surge again in Prompto, enough for him to stir a little. His shoulders shift just a few centimetres, his free hand, the one that had been hanging down by his and Noctis’s sides, catching on the pocket of Noctis’s light jacket. It’s the only thing he can reach and he gives it a light tug, one barely strong enough to be called that.
“‘S okay,” he mumbles, pulling his hand again. The jacket barely moves. “Think…” Prompto clears his throat, trying again with a faint, airless laugh. “Think maybe I might need some help, Noct.”
It’s such a completely Prompto thing to say that it makes Gladio laugh a little too, but not much. It doesn’t make Noctis laugh at all. Instead, he presses his face down against Prompto’s hair, then looks sharply back up at Ignis with a look on his face like he’s asking a question.
Whatever he’s looking for in Ignis he must find it, because after long enough that Gladio’s started to get worried all over again, Noctis nods slightly and begins what is obviously for him the very difficult process of relinquishing Prompto over to their two companions.
Initially Gladio hangs back, letting Ignis take him first. It means an extra, unnecessary transfer from one person to the next, and they really probably should be avoiding jostling Prompto around more than they have to. Judging by the look on his face when helping to shift Prompto from Noctis’s arms into his own, though, Ignis needs this too, and Gladio isn’t about to deprive him of it. Prompto doesn’t seem to mind at least, for what degree he even notices this happening at all.
By this point, it seems that Prompto’s barely holding onto the waking world enough to catch his fingertips in Ignis’s shirt fabric like he’d snagged Noctis’s jacket pocket, murmuring something inaudible to the man now holding him. Ignis’s expression goes wrenchingly fond and he says something back, also too quiet to understand even from Gladio’s near distance, then presses his lips to Prompto’s temple in a brief, fierce kiss.
Though Noctis definitely took Prompto’s loss the hardest, which makes sense given, among other things, how it all had happened, he didn’t win that one by a wide margin. They’ve all been worried sick, scared out of their minds for their missing piece. Gladio kept catching Ignis sitting with his shoulder slumped in an exhausted departure from his usual perfect posture, glasses dangling limply from one hand while he pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of the other. He hadn’t even bothered to pull himself sharply together when he’d noticed Gladio was there, which went to prove just how hard it was hitting him.
Seeing Prompto like this now, hurt in more ways than one after having been tormented for days on end, toyed with and brutalized because Ardyn was… bored, or whatever his motivation had been, it’s awful. It’s nauseating and painful and shatteringly unfair, but it’s far from the worst possible outcome. It doesn’t even begin to hold a candle to the nights Gladio spent trying to sleep but left unable to thanks to image after image of what could’ve happened to Prompto after he’d been thrown from that train. He’d pictured it all vividly. Prompto frozen to death half buried in snow, or Prompto with his skull cracked and hair stained bright red, a hundred different ways he could’ve died, scared and alone. This is bad, but it’s not nearly the worst way this search could have ended. Not even close to it.
With one last deep, deliberate breath, splaying his fingers out over the side of Prompto’s neck and pressing his cheek to the top of the kid’s head, Ignis seems to steel his nerve, and shifts towards where he knows Gladio to be, clearly indicating he’s ready to continue the chain. Noctis has been riveted the entire time, his expression twisted in obvious worry. His arms are folded, fingers digging into his own sides hard enough Gladio would guess it hurts.
Crouching down and reaching to take Prompto from Ignis, Gladio pauses before making contact, looking at Noctis and taking a moment to make sure the frown is gone from his face.
“I’ll be careful with him, I promise,” he says. “I’ll be gentle.”
Though he doesn’t respond verbally, Noctis nods. He doesn’t look embarrassed about the hovering, though it’s just the four of them in the hall there, and Gladio doesn’t hold it against him. There are worse things in the world than being a little protective, under the circumstances.
Having obtained the go-ahead from Noctis, Gladio gets down on one knee and lifts Prompto out of Ignis’s arms and into his own. The relief of actually being able to finally touch him, feel the slightly fevered warmth of his skin and the faint exhales of air against Gladio’s collarbone that mean he’s still breathing, even and steady, is staggering. There’s a lump in Gladio’s throat that’s hard to swallow around and impossible to speak through, and so he doesn’t try. He just holds Prompto as carefully as he used to hold Iris, back when they were so much younger and the world was so much smaller and made so much more sense, and starts off down the hall.
The barracks room they’d passed earlier isn’t too far away, thankfully, and it doesn’t take more than five minutes of navigating dim, winding halls to get to it. The rows of shitty, narrow bunk beds look more welcoming than it feels like they should have the right to be, which Gladio will take, given the circumstances. He carries Prompto over to one of them and sets him down, being extremely cautious in the process. Gladio can feel Noctis watching him, and is pointedly not taking offense to the fact that it feels like he’s being monitored to be sure he’s being careful enough. Gentle enough.
After all, Gladio had promised. He can forgive Noctis for being a little fussy, even if it means he’s got to pretend not to notice he’s being watched like a hawk.
Once Prompto is settled, Gladio sits down next to him and pulls him upright again, letting the poor, exhausted blond slump against his side in order to remain upright. Ignis rifles around in a bag, feeling through the supplies they’ve brought along for anything that might be useful. The damage done is, at this point, largely too old and set in for potions to do much good, so they’re going to have to handle this one the slow way, which means persuading him to take pain medication shaken from a large bottle with a bottle of water, then setting about to see if there’s anything that needs specific attention.
Ignis conducts most of the actual exam, which on its face doesn’t seem like an entirely logical plan, except for one thing. They’ve discovered since Altissia, in one of a small, coveted handful of mercies, that Prompto won’t really lie to Ignis about his condition anymore. He probably thinks it’s unfair to take advantage of Ignis’s blindness, and something about that seems to override the persistent issue they’ve had to handle with Prompto as long as Gladio can remember knowing him for - the one where he thinks not telling them what’s wrong with him is in any way the preferred option in literally any scenario. Maybe that’s not a fair thing to take advantage of, but none of this is fair and hasn’t been in a long-ass time, and so if it means they’ll be able to get some good idea of what they’re dealing with here, he’ll take it.
The entire time they’re treating his injuries, Gladio handling what Ignis can’t, Prompto just sits there and takes it. He lets them do whatever they’re going to do without speaking a word not solicited from him by a direct question, body pliant and readily cooperative when they move him. Every so often a shiver runs through him, causing Gladio to rub a palm over his narrow shoulders in some vain hope to erase whatever bad memory he’s caught in. Noctis sits on a bed across from where they work, keeping a strange distance, watching everything happening with an eerie kind of quiet.
Everyone is eerily quiet right now, though, Gladio supposes. Words are failing all four of them, because, well. What is there left to say?
After Prompto’s been sufficiently seen to, medically speaking, they’ve determined that there’s some pretty deep bruising and some painful scrapes and cuts in addition to the way he’s torn his wrists up pretty good fighting the cuffs he’d been buckled into, but there’s nothing worse than that. It’s some kind of mild relief, but Gladio’s having a hard time being particularly relaxed by it. Especially given what followed.
Prompto held on long enough for them to finish checking him over and taking care of what they could, and watching him fall asleep was nothing short of awful. Every few seconds, his eyes would snap open again, sometimes accompanied by a flinch or a small sound in the back of his throat and he’d look around, fear in his eyes, until he spotted all three of them. Only then would he relax at all again, listless head mashed into some crappy, thin pillow. It was only when Ignis set a gentle hand on the side of his head, fingers carding steadily through his hair, murmuring something Gladio couldn't quite make out, that Prompto finally gave up trying to cling to consciousness and finally let himself pass out.
Though he’s still out now, Ignis hasn’t left his place sitting on the narrow bed by Prompto’s hip, petting his hair in slow strokes. Gladio can guess why he’s there, unable to bring himself to move away just yet. Even if Ignis can’t see Prompto, there’s still a way for him to feel the warmth of the alive, whole kid laying there, hear his breathing and be sure he is, for a given definition at least, alright.
For his part, Gladio’s retreated to stand by the door, and he stays there for a long time. He can’t really explain why he does it but he does, silently watching the three of them, Prompto asleep curled on his side, Ignis sitting next to him, Noctis on the bunk across with his knees pulled up to his chest and his chin propped on his forearms folded over them.
Noctis is the strangest part. Gladio would’ve expected that as soon as they made it to the little dorm room, he would’ve been back wrapped around Prompto like he thought he was some kind of bulletproof vest that could keep the kid safe just by holding him tight enough. Even now that Ignis and Gladio are done with whatever shitty patch-up job they were capable of doing under the circumstances, Noctis hasn’t moved. Instead, he’s keeping his distance and watching from where he sits on his own dingy little mattress.
Something about watching him there makes Gladio’s head hurt, and he lets it fall back against the wall, the dull thud echoing through his skull in ripple effect throbs. Ignis twitches like he hears it, his head turning towards where Gladio is standing. He wants to shake his head to indicate everything is fine, but that’s a nonstarter. There’s no way to verbally put Ignis’s concern to rest either, not without getting Noctis’s attention or possibly waking up Prompto, who seems to have reached some kind of tentative rest. So Gladio just keeps standing there, aching head leaned back against the wall, unable to do… really, anything. About any of it.
Eventually, Ignis is the one who decides he’s had enough.
“Noctis,” he calls softly across the short distance separating where he and Noctis sit. Even though Ignis keeps his voice pitched low, Prompto still stirs slightly, a restless shift accompanied by an incoherent mumble. Ignis soothes him wordlessly, his absent-minded stroking of Prompto’s hair growing more purposeful. Careful fingers brush down his head and settle on his shoulder for a moment, squeezing it, then returning to his temple to begin again. “Noctis,” Ignis calls again, slightly louder. “Come over here.”
Hesitating, Noctis doesn’t move right away. Ignis gives him a moment then pushes him a little harder.
“He’s right here, Noct. He’s going to be alright. Come here. Please.”
Noctis rises from the bunk slowly and inelegantly, unfolding himself like an animatron that had sat so long in the rain it had rusted. Gladio pushes off the wall, ready to help him, but Noctis waves a hand at him, and he stays put reluctantly.
Walking over gingerly, Noctis hovers at the edge of the bunk Prompto lays on without sitting down, folding his arms and looking anxious and reluctant. Ignis reaches out with the hand not still laid on Prompto’s head. He skims Noctis’s elbow, grip settling over his wrist.
“We got him back,” Ignis says. His thumb moves over the bone of Noctis’s wrist, emphasizing his words. “It’s okay to be scared. We were all scared. But we got him back, and he’s here with us now. We didn’t lose anyone.”
“I…” The word rasps out of Noctis’s throat like he’d forced it past sandpaper. “On the train, I…”
“I know. But you must keep in mind, everything that happened was Ardyn’s doing. You would never harm him, or any of us. We know that. Prompto knows that.”
“He doesn’t!” It’s louder than Noctis had clearly meant it to be, startling even himself. Prompto twitches slightly at the sound, and the look on Noctis’s face when he sees that is something approaching heartbroken, the same way he’d looked in the hall when Prompto had asked if he’d been worried. “He didn’t even… He didn’t even say anything, a-about…”
“And rest assured, we will be discussing that.”
Gladio stifles a snort. Damn right they’ll be discussing that.
“For now, however,” Ignis continues, pulling at Noctis’s wrist just insistently enough to get his arm down away from his chest, at least partially dismantling his defensive posture, “I think we all need some rest, wouldn’t you agree?”
Before Noctis can say anything to answer that, Prompto moves again, making a confused, questioning sound. He reaches out with a hand that shakes with exhaustion, reminding Gladio of how he’d reached for Noctis’s shirt in the hallway, only having enough energy to barely snag the edge of his pocket. Prompto tries to say something again, the vague shape of Noctis’s name discernible in the sound, half lost in the threadbare pillowcase.
However reluctant Noctis was for whatever reason, he’s not strong enough to deny Prompto what he’s clearly asking for. He never would’ve been, and certainly not under these circumstances.
Ignis shifts out of the way so he has the room to gingerly climb up onto the mattress, fitting himself in next to where Prompto lays. As soon as Noctis settles down beside him, Prompto rolls forward to press against him with a shaky sigh, the rigid tension that had still been visible in his battered body leaving him until he’s boneless, supported entirely by the mattress and by Noctis. Gladio’s never seen Noctis move so carefully in his life as he does when he drapes his arm over Prompto’s waist, the other inching its way under his neck to cradle Prompto’s head in the crook of his shoulder.
The sight lights something pained and fond in Gladio’s chest, remembering a hundred different times he’d gotten up in the morning and seen them like that, wrapped around each other so that it was hard to tell where one kid ended and the other began.
He hadn’t been sure it was something he’d ever see again.
Pulling at some ratty blanket that sucks about as much as the mattresses on the bunks do, Ignis drapes it over the boys and tucking the edges around them in a way that, another day, in what feels now like another life, Gladio would’ve poked fun at him for. When he’s satisfied with the job he’s done to the best of his ability, Ignis stands. He sets a hand on what’s visible of Prompto’s blond head, leaving it there for a moment, then doing the same to Noctis, palm cupping the curve of his skull as he murmurs, “He’s all yours then. I’ll leave him in your care.”
There’s something else under the words, something Noctis obviously hears, if the way Gladio can see the blanket shifting as he tightens his grip on Prompto is anything to go by. It’s a very clear declaration of faith. Ignis is telling Noctis that, despite what happened on the train and how he’s obviously still being shredded by it inside, they trust him with Prompto, that they know there’s not a safer place for him to be than held in that bunk between Noctis and the wall.
Not much time goes by before the weight of the last day - the last week, month, months - catches up to Gladio at once and he decides he should probably try and grab some sleep himself. It’s a short decision to climb up to the bunk over where Noctis and Prompto are huddled together, rolling close to the wall and closing his eyes. They don’t stay closed for long.
Gladio has never slept well when he knew there was something wrong with one of the others, something that was disturbing their sleep too.
(Gladio hasn’t slept well in what feels like an age.)
For a long time he lays on his side, arm tucked under his head, and stares at the wall. When that becomes intolerable, Gladio rolls over and watches Ignis instead. He stays watching Ignis for a while, unable to sleep and feeling unsettled. It’s obvious even from this distance that Ignis isn’t sleeping either. The glasses are off and scarred eyes are staring generally upwards in much the same way Gladio had been staring at the wall just now. Looking at him gives Gladio the distinct feeling that there’s something he’s supposed to be doing, but he doesn’t know what it is, leaving an itching static under his skin he can do nothing to abate. So he turns again, staring instead at the ceiling, blinking up into the dark. Minutes slip past in the dark, the silence broken only by the distant sounds of shifting somewhere in the building, the faint hush of three other people breathing in the room with him.
The sound of Ignis clearing his throat is quiet but still startling. "I’m not sure what you're finding so interesting about the ceiling above the top bunk but I assure you that your assistance and presence would be greatly appreciated down here on the ground floor."
It comes out of nowhere, nothing Gladio would’ve expected, and he frowns and turns back to look at that same ceiling. “I’m-”
“You’re not fine up there,” Ignis interrupts, just a little sharply. “I can hear you thinking all the way over here and I know you’re not asleep yet. How long have we known one another? Just come down here.”
It’s something Gladio loses sight of, sometimes. Ignis has never been able to lie to him, no matter how well he could pull one over on everyone else, but it’s a street that goes both ways. He hadn’t even said it yet and Ignis still called bullshit on him.
It’s this realization that leads fairly naturally to the follow-up conclusion that there’s no way in hell Ignis is going to let this go. No matter how much Gladio wants to lay up here on his own, staring at the ceiling and soaking in the background miasma of how thoroughly useless and terrified he’s felt for some time now, Ignis is not going to allow him to. Picking his battles is a lesson Gladio has learned about fifteen years ago when it comes to his oldest friend, and so he sighs, doesn’t pick this one, and sits up.
The rickety little ladder creaks when he climbs down and Gladio winces, glancing around the posts of the bunk to check on whether he’s managed to wake Prompto or Noctis with the noise. Thankfully, they’re both still out cold, wrapped around each other just like they had been when he’d first climbed up to try and get some sleep himself. Nothing else for it, he turns and crosses the short distance to where Ignis is waiting.
Ever three steps ahead in any given situation, Ignis is already half propped up on one elbow, the side of the blanket he’s found for himself pulled back and held up in a deliberate invitation. Sighing, Gladio sits down on the edge of the mattress and tugs his boots off - something he hadn’t bothered to do before climbing up to the bunk he’d intended to spend the night on. He swings his legs up onto the narrow bed, allowing Ignis to shuffle the blanket to cover them, still not entirely sure what’s going on here.
“So what’s… what’s this about?” Gladio asks eventually, when it becomes clear no spontaneously volunteered explanation would be forthcoming. He frowns, suddenly worried. “Are you okay, Iggy? It’s been a rough day.”
“That it has,” Ignis agrees. An insistent grip settles around Gladio’s bicep, tugging at his arm until he complies and lays down, rolling onto his side to make the most of the cramped space. “Which is precisely why you’re going to sleep down here, with me, where you can see the boys if you just look across the way. I guarantee we’ll all feel safer with you here, and you might even get some rest, too.” He pauses, and Gladio feels Ignis’s forehead rest against his back. It moves with the shift of a deep inhale and exhale, the kind that had always been one of the clearest tells that something was bothering him. “There is absolutely no point in any of us isolating ourselves. This room is too small and we’ve all been through too much of late.”
Gladio has to admit, Ignis makes a good point. He doesn’t say as much out loud, just presses back enough to feel Ignis’s forehead solidly against his spine between his shoulder blades. A hand, still missing the glove he’d removed in the hall to feel along Prompto’s wrist, settles on Gladio’s waist in response. It’s almost hesitant, like after this many years Ignis still doesn’t know how much he’s allowed to ask for, how much comfort he’s allowed to take from the friends he offers it to so freely. Unwilling to let that thought go unchallenged, Gladio covers Ignis’s hand with his own, holding on tightly.
Across from them, Gladio can make out the dim shape of Noctis and Prompto, wrapped in the blanket that had been tucked around them. Behind him, Ignis is a warm, familiar presence. The door is blocked with enough random debris that anything disturbing it will cause enough racket to wake the Six themselves before coming close to making it inside. Today has been terrible, and tomorrow is another monster entirely, one they have no way of guessing the shape of yet. For now, though, Gladio has all three of his friends together, where he can see and feel them, and for now at least they’re all safe. As safe as they can be.
For now, that’s going to have to be enough.