So I found a post by @yourscientistfriend that mentioned Promptoās barcode has his genetic data on it and that, among other things, heās A) not build to live long, and B) at high risk for neuro-degenerative diseases, and Iāve been absolutely ripping myself apart with that information and I justā¦.
In his forties, Prompto started to forget things. Little things, like his keys or his phone or his earbuds.
āTypical Prompto,ā Gladio had shrugged, smile wry but fond.
Ignis had allowed the worry to be shrugged off, perhaps because yes, Prompto had always been a bit scattered, but perhaps also because he didnāt want anything to be wrong.
When Prompto lost his camera, spending nearly a full day in utter panicāāThe pictures, Iggy! I had pictures of Noct onāI have to findāIggy, I donāt know where I last had it!āābefore finding it in his darkroom, Ignis began to push harder, the concern rooting deep in his gut.
But memory goes with age, and gods knew theyād lived hard lives. And it was easy to assume it was merely that, as the months trickled by and Prompto seemed to be only mildly more forgetful with each year.
And then late one night in October, when the chill had hit Neo Insomnia with the first cruel stroke of winter, Promptoās neighbor called, and Ignis found his friend shivering in the cold, wandering around his own block, lost and dazed and unsure of where he was.
The incident was brief, but it was terrifying. After that, they took steps. Gladio and Ignis made a point to check in several times a day, and while it wasnāt perfect it seemed to work well enough. For a while, Prompto was okay.
They lost track of him for half a day, phone calls unreturned, texts unanswered, and when Gladio visited to check on him, he found Prompto a few miles down his usual jogging route, staring disoriented at the parkās artificial pond as though he didnāt know how heād gotten there.
And, when Gladio pushed his voice past the lump of fear and apprehension and relief that heād found him to ask why Prompto was there, his friend responded slowly, hazily, āIā¦Iām not sure?ā
So they hired a nurse to stay with him most of the day, and Ignis and Gladio visited often. After a while, Ignis had practically moved himself into Promptoās room. His evenings were spent researching, because there had been treatments for thisāgood onesābefore the Fall, before the Darkness that left so much to rust and ruin. Much had been recovered in the Restoration, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
For a few years, they found a rhythm. The nurse stayed longer, and Ignis and Gladio were a near constant presence. And Prompto seemed to carry on just fine, interrupted by episodes few and far between of absence but still so often their Prompto that Ignisāfoolish, foolishāallowed himself to lull. It was okay, he told himself. Prompto was okay.
Gladio would never admit to the hitch in his breath, would never tell a soul of the tear Ignis discreetly wiped away when they had to sell the house. It was too big, too empty without Promptoās brightness to fill it up. Ignis moved into Gladioās, larger but cozy and warm and the walls seemed to echo with the laughter of children long grown.
They visited Prompto as much as they could. The nurses were kind, gentle. And there were good days.
Days when Prompto was alive and shining and present, chattering about the pictures he took in the courtyard, the foodāāNot nearly as good as yours, Iggy, of course.āāand they could let themselves forget that anything was wrong.
But there were bad days, too. Days that got worse and more frequent as time went on.
Days when Ignis would visit and Prompto would break down at the sight of himāāOh, gods, noāIggy, your eyes, what happāIggy, no, no!āāand Ignis would hold him and murmur soothing nonsense against the silver streaks in his blonde hair, tucking him close like a child and trying desperately not to clutch him too tightly. Those days were hard, because Ignis wasnāt allowed to stay. The staff didnāt like when Prompto got so worked up, so distressed; they didnāt like sedating him.
Or days when Gladio would sit next to him and talk and if the conversation was a bit stilted that was okay because Prompto recognized Gladio, didnāt think he was Clarus or some stranger. Until Prompto asked, so hesitant and unsure, if Noct was going to visit him.
āSorry, buddy,ā Gladio said, voice gruff and thankfully only a little shaky. āNot today.ā
āOhā¦Iā¦ā And Prompto smiled, sad and trembling at the edges, and gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. āYeah, Iā¦ I get it.ā Just a pleb, hung in the air, unspoken and raw.
Because Prompto didnāt always remember leaving Insomnia. He didnāt always remember late night confessions in motels when everyone was trying to sleep or gentle ribbing astride chocobos as they trekked for days on end from campsite to campsite. He didnāt remember the train, or Gralea, or the truth and its acceptanceāhis acceptance. He didnāt remember.
And Gladio ignored the sharp twinge in his chest, tugging beneath the heavy, heavy weight that always rested there when he thought of Prompto. He wanted to pull him close, reassure him that Noct wasnāt rejecting himācouldnāt, would neverābut he had to be careful. Promptoās anxiety was unpredictable nowadays, and in this state a hug could sooth as easily as it panicked.
So Gladio settled for a gentle pat on his shoulder and changed the subject.
And then there were the deceptive days, too, and Ignis thought he hated them the most. The days when Ignis was sure, so sure that it was a good day. When he let himself hope. When they would talk and chat and everything seemed fine.
āAh, thatās right. Iāve brought you Daggerquill rice,ā Ignis said, rising to set the tupperware carefully on the table.
āOh, wow, thanks! Thatās my favorite!ā
And Ignis could hear the smile in his friendās voice, as sunny and carefree as when they were young, even as he felt his stomach plummet. Still, he clung to hopeāso foolish, Ignis thought, why would he never learn?āand responded hesitantly, quietly. āYes, I know. ā¦Prompto, do you know who I am?ā
Prompto laughed. āOf course I do!ā And Ignis hoped. He hoped that Prompto was just being silly, joking around like he usually did, that the bubbly response had been a playful jab.
Until he couldnāt. Until Prompto continued, bright and happy and absent, āYouāre the nice man who brought the meat pie yesterday!ā
Last week. The Meldacio meat pie was last week. But the thought was distant and vague in the pained clamor of his mind as Ignis focused on breathing. When would he learn? How many times would it take?
āPrompto, itās Ignis.ā And he couldnāt recognize his own voice.
āHmm?ā Confusion, and then, excited and happy, āOh, hey, thatās my friendās name!ā
But for Gladio, the worst days were the silent days.
Prompto sat in the chair in his small living space, flicking through the same set of pictures on his camera over and over. He didnāt respond. Gladio could talk to him, touch him, playfully nudge and ruffle his hair. And Prompto blankly let it happen, never looking up, never responding, absent in his own body.
Empty inside, like a doll orā¦
Gladio couldnāt make himself stay long, those days.
There were nights when Ignis and Gladio stayed up later than they should. The grandchildren were safely home again, and the Amicitia household was quiet. They sat in the den and nursed snifters of expensive alcohol, and they talked.
They talked about the trip and before, about wrangling Noct and Prompto from the arcade, about prying them out of the tent in the early morning, about begging them to just wear their damn seat-belts, for godsā sake.
They didnāt talk about the Altissia, or Gralea, or the Darkness, or when they helped their lost king steal back the dawn and for a few glorious days they were together and whole again.
They didnāt talk about Prompto, about how they were steadily losing him in stumbles and leaps like sliding sand between fingers, about how his memories were seeping out of him, fading like a photo left too long in the sun.
They didnāt have to, really. The grief was too heavy, thick and unwieldy, and so long as that pressure held their lungs tight, they didnāt have toācouldnātāspeak of it.
Until, someday maybe, they could.
ā¦I-Iā¦justā¦oh my godā¦oh, oh my godā¦
thank you, thank you so much for submitting this but Iām gonna need a moment to gather the scraps of my shredded heartā¦
