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Prompto is pretty damn sure his lap isn’t all that comfortable, but he’s tried twice to insist that Ignis would probably feel better if he had a proper pillow and Ignis had insisted he wouldn’t. And, well—Prompto was already bad at saying no to Ignis, and he’s not about to start now, not when this is the first time Ignis has actively sought out his touch since the fight with Leviathan went wrong.
Sure, Prompto has touched Ignis plenty of times since then, but it’s mostly been to guide him or keep him from landing on his face or his ass. On one horrifying evening, it was to pluck bits of drywall out of Ignis’s bloody knuckles with a pair of hotel tweezers. Ignis had refused their last potion since Noctis was still passed out then and no one knew when he’d be awake again and could make more.
Prompto doesn’t know what’s changed. All he knows is that Ignis reached out to him from the lower bunk after Gladio and Noctis stormed out of the cabin, and Prompto caught his hand immediately. Ignis had pulled him down to sit on the bed and then, without his customary grace, shifted so he could rest his head in Prompto’s lap and hide his face against Prompto’s stomach.
It’s not something Ignis often did, even before. Only when he was at his most frustrated or exhausted, and Prompto’s glad that Ignis hasn’t tried to strike up any conversation since there’s a behemoth-sized lump in his throat and Ignis would absolutely hate it if he thought Prompto felt any pity for him.
Personally, Prompto thinks that Ignis can’t tell the difference between pity and heartache for someone you love, but he’s not about to say that to Ignis’s face. Prompto doesn’t want to start an argument when things are already so fragile between all of them. Gladio and Noct have that covered.
Prompto gathers up the courage to take off his right glove and then very carefully settles his hand on Ignis’s head. Ignis tenses briefly, but when Prompto snatches his hand away, Ignis grips the hem of Prompto’s shirt. There’s a hitch to his breathing that doesn’t disappear until Prompto settles his hand back on Ignis’s hair. It isn’t until Prompto starts running his hand over his hair that Ignis lets go of Prompto’s shirt.
Prompto swallows hard to clear his throat and stares at the empty bunk across from him.
“We’ll be at Cartanica tomorrow,” Prompto says eventually, even though Ignis has been paying far closer attention to the conductor’s announcements than he has. Ignis—does better when he’s focused on other things, other people. “It’ll be good to go out, stretch our legs.”
Pick up another royal weapon, he doesn’t say, because they’re on the run in Niflheim territory and the last thing he needs to do is say something that attracts attention.
Ignis doesn’t respond. Normally he’d at least hum, make some little noise of acknowledgment. I’m rather fond of your prattle, he told Prompto once, when they had first started to date and Prompto was extra self-conscious, before Insomnia fell. Ignis had said it with such warmth that it had made Prompto’s ears burn.
Prompto’s weak attempt at words desert him in the silence. He takes two slow breaths and reminds himself that Ignis is withdrawing around everyone, not just him. Ignis is trying to take up as little space, as little notice as possible, like he believes something terrible will happen if someone else remembers that he’s there and that he has been hurt. That he is still hurt, and some things won’t heal. Prompto can’t bear to tell Ignis that Noctis can’t look at him without devastating grief and Gladio stares as if Ignis will collapse again if he looks away for too long.
After a while, he trails his fingers to the base of Ignis’s skull, to the back of his neck. He traces warm, gentle circles there and tries not to be overwhelmed by relief when Ignis lets him, when Ignis slowly relaxes underneath his hand. He wonders if Ignis is having a migraine again, and if Ignis is, if this is helping.
Prompto isn’t great at offering reassurance, not like Ignis is. Ignis can guide a conversation into a positive direction with just a few well-chosen words and some clever rhetoric and walk away leaving everyone feeling better. But he hates it when anyone else tries to do it to him. Ignis doesn’t like being managed, as he calls it. It’s the one hypocrisy he’ll admit to when pressed.
(One Ignis won’t admit to and that Prompto doesn’t always catch: his preference to suffer through something rather than ask for help.)
So Prompto doesn’t try to say anything comforting. Nothing about how Ignis is getting better with his cane and his strength has been returning. Nothing about how they’re all terrified and sick with guilt and furious at themselves for not being there when everything went wrong. At best, Ignis would take offense at the idea he needs to be consoled; at worst, he would withdraw further to minimize their pain.
Prompto waits instead, letting the steady rumble of the train and the motion of his hand finally lull Ignis back into a fitful sleep. Only then does Prompto whisper, I love you. That won’t change.