Out, out, out, he’s going to get out. 

Prompto checks his phone again. No new texts, and it’s still a couple minutes away from eleven. He’s been up since six thanks to an annoying combination of nightmares and his obnoxious heart and then had five hours to get showered and dressed and then wait.

Noctis invited him over. All day. Video game tournament, movies, whatever Prompto wants, so long as they stay in. He’d sounded so apologetic about it, like it was somehow an offer he wasn’t sure Prompto would take. Prompto just wants to exist in the same space as another human being. He wants—

It is impossible to miss Gladio’s surprise, though it’s quickly masked. Ignis supposes he can’t blame Gladio for assuming he might try his own hand at scolding. 

“I’m fine,” Gladio says, and then a firmer “I am,” when Ignis just watches him. Glado scoffs, but then he relents. He sighs and slumps a little in his chair. “I don’t hate him.”

“I know, and so, I suspect, does Noctis,” Ignis says quietly. He watches Gladio carefully, hoping that he can navigate the next part delicately enough that Gladio won’t immediately raise his defenses. “That doesn’t mean we aren’t still hurting.”

“We, huh?”

It’s an unsubtle attempt to shift the focus of the conversation, but Ignis allows it for a moment. “I have done precious little right in this affair, and my attempts at managing anything have largely been for naught. I—” Ignis grants himself a steadying breath and the pain of honesty  “—haven’t been this frightened since I was a child.”