(do not go gentle into that) good night

"No," says Gladio.

Noct replies, "What the fuck do you mean, no?"

"I mean no." Gladio is holding Noct by the elbow so that he doesn't run off into the night, his other hand on the open door of the Regalia. "Prompto and Iggy—"

"Prompto and Iggy are out there!" Noctis says, his voice rising high. "And you want us to—what? Hang back? Go to a motel, get a good night's sleep—"

Gladio slams the car door shut and pulls Noctis closer by the arm, shaking him hard. "Listen to yourself, Noct," he hisses. "If Prompto and Ignis are out there, they're hiding. What are you gonna do, march in there with the daemons and yell for them?"

Noct's face crumples. "If," he says, his entire posture deflating. "If they're out there."

"They might be on their way to the closest outpost themselves," Gladio says. "I get it, okay? I get it. I hate it, too, but we can't help them right now. If we came looking for them, we'd only put them—and us—in danger. And it's my job to keep you safe. You." Gladio shakes Noct again, and Noct lets himself be shaken. "Get it?"

For a moment, Noct's expression stays the same—the face of a lost, little boy scared out of his mind instead of the king that he is. That Gladio knows he can be. He looks up at Gladio with his eyes tight and mouth pressed into a thin, twisted line, but then something changes. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, grounds himself. When he looks at Gladio again, he's determined. "Okay. Yeah, okay."

Gladio lets go of Noct's wrist. "Well, good," he says. His voice sounds like gravel. "Get in the car, and let's get out of here."

Noctis doesn't have to say they're coming back first thing after sunrise. That's already a given.

---

Here is how things went down.

The four of them had accepted a hunt for a supposedly vicious iron giant that all the other hunters steered clear of. They're not completely stupid—they've got Iggy on their side—so they stocked up on potions and elixirs, and even bought a few phoenix downs, just to be sure.

They were prepared for an iron giant just fine.

They were not prepared for the red giant that followed, or the bombs that spawned along with it. They ran out of potions, and then of elixirs. Then some goblins joined the fight, already tipped so unfairly against them, and Noct got knocked down hard, and Iggy went into danger, and Prompto went from moderately afraid for his life to flat out panic.

Gladio called for a retreat, his voice barely carrying over the daemon noises, and grabbed Noctis. Prompto wasted a few precious seconds to chuck a gravisphere the other way, just to give them that one little advantage. He ran over to Iggy, who's been hunched over on the sidelines, staggering around like a drunk man, and pulled one of Iggy's arms over his own shoulder to drag him where Gladio and Noctis had gone. Iggy, being his awesome, reliable self actually moved mostly under his own steam. Even concussed and confused, Ignis was the baddest motherfucker on the block.

Prompto could see, a few yards ahead, as Gladio and Noctis disappeared between the trees. The bombs and the goblins were busy trying to escape his gravisphere, and for a sweet, beautiful second Prompto thought they might just get out of there fine.

It was in that exact moment that the red giant's sword went down just a few measly feet in front of them.

So. That's how they got here.

Prompto barely stops them from barrelling face-first into the flames. He scrambles back with a yelp, feeling the heat singe his skin, and before he can even think about it he's back up on his feet, mad-dashing the other way with Iggy tripping behind him.

As he pulls Ignis along, Prompto thanks every Astral for the foresighted decision to take up running all those years ago, but even with all his running experience and all his stamina, Ignis is tall, and actually packing muscle, and Prompto is neither of those things. They don't get far. The sounds of the red giant get more distant with every step, but the bombs and the goblins seem to follow them.

Prompto needs to think of something fast or they're done for. Even if he weren't too fucking scared to circle back towards the Regalia, he doesn't think he'd be able to drag Iggy all the way. He's practically carrying him at this point.

For a moment Prompto considers throwing himself to the ground between the trees and the undergrowth and just hope for the best, and he might have done just that had he not had Iggy with him. But he does, and Ignis—Ignis matters. Prompto can't just drop Ignis and hope he doesn't become daemon chow.

He pulls him in tighter and keeps stumbling through the forest, haunted by his own shadows and panting breaths, and, a little further back, the daemons hunting for them still. He stumbles another hundred feet, and then another. The goblins follow. Prompto hefts Ignis higher and stomps his panic lower, and stumbles forward—

—and trips.

It's all he can do to keep Ignis from face-planting into the ground. His knee jams painfully into whatever he tripped over, and he bites back a yelp. Ignis groans into his ear and Prompto instinctively shushes him, teeth gritted. He looks down, squinting through the darkness.

A wooden plank. Huh. Like, an actual plank, something a human would use to build—

Prompto looks up. Stairs. A porch, and a door, and a house—old and abandoned, yeah, and it's obviously creaky and drafty, but Prompto is so happy to have found it that it might as well be a five star hotel. The sound that comes out of his throat borders on a sob of relief. He gets up, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in his knee, and limps up the stairs as fast as he can with Ignis now a dead weight at his side.

He doesn't think about how worrying it is that Ignis is so still and quiet, leaving Prompto in charge even though he would normally rather eat his glasses than so much as let him anywhere near being in control. Prompto can't even recall the moment Ignis fell unconscious.

Prompto shoulders the door open with a sickening screech of rusted hinges and rotten wood, and pushes Ignis inside. He drops him to the the ground, propping him against a far wall—gods, he hopes the wood doesn't give out under his weight—and slams the door back shut. It makes a sort of noise that Prompto thinks means no one will open it again without breaking it.

He hopes it won't be the goblins.

He leans against the closed door, trying—and failing—to keep his panicked breathing quiet so he can hear what's going on outside, if the daemons are still on their trail. Sure enough, the house isn't nearly well–enough insulated to block out the sounds, nor the glow of the bombs. The laughing and chortling and screaming, or the sound of tiny clawed feet puttering on the ground, then up the wooden porch…

Prompto's frozen with fear against the door. It's so dark he can barely see the tips of his fingers, and he can't make out Iggy's unconscious form, which is only a few feet away, at all. Will he even be able to aim if the goblins find them here? Maybe it'd better if–

With a stomach–turning screech, one of the goblins throws himself at the wall of the cottage. The wood groans like it's going to break. It doesn't, but Prompto gets so startled he stumbles away from the door and summons his gun. It appears in his hand with the bright blue shimmer of the crystal's magic, so bright in the absolute darkness that, for one second, it illuminates the entire cabin.

So bright there's no way the goblins could have missed it.

The one right outside goes quiet and still, and Prompto mirrors it. He can hear the other daemons chortling in the back like a perverted version of a children's playground. He doesn't dare even breathe. In his mind's eye, he sees the whole wall of the cabin give under the onslaught of daemons, right before they swarm them and—

The goblin outside starts creeping along the wall. It's not sneaking, not really—the motions sound too jerky and fast. There's no reason that daemons should know how to sneak, anyway. It's not really their style.

Prompto glances at Ignis, unconscious, slumped against the wall. Maybe Prompto could buy him some time. Serve as a distraction. There's no way he'd be able to kill the daemons by himself, and he can't count on Noct or Gladio coming to his aid. Who knows where they are now. (Hopefully far away and safe.) Prompto may be fast, but there's not a chance he'd be able to outrun the goblins, not in the dark on this uneven ground. But he could lead them away.

The goblin drags its claws on the wood, rumbling deep in its throat, like something straight out of the horror movies he and Noctis used to watch long before they were thrust into a nightmare of their own.

Prompto grips his gun tighter. There's no guarantee that other daemons wouldn't raid the cabin after he left, and, with Prompto gone, there's no one to look after Ignis. Noct wouldn't want that. Noct wouldn't want Prompto to become daemon chow, either.

The sounds of the other goblins fade into the distance as the other goblins pass the cabin—maybe Prompto's lucky, for once in his life, and the daemons missed the flash of magic, or maybe they're just not interested anymore—and retreat deeper into the woods in search of prey.

So, no. Prompto's staying. He takes a slow, careful step between where the last, lone goblin is still lurking outside and Ignis' prone form. There's a gap in the planks of the old, decrepit wooden wall, and as Prompto side-steps, so does the daemon. Its eyes glow as they meet Prompto's right through that gap.

For a moment, nothing happens. Prompto's not sure if the echo of the goblins' laughter in the far distance is real or just his imagination.

The goblin shrieks and lunges. The wall groans and gives with a sickening crack, only somehow dulled by how wet the wood is, rotten through. Prompto flinches back, but his aim is steady when he points the barrel of his gun at the goblin, snarling and struggling to push through the narrow gap like a rat. Prompto could end it with one shot, as easy as snapping his fingers, and he almost does. His finger tightens on the trigger, but he can still hear the other daemons in the distance. If they hear the shot, if they turn around—it's game over.

The goblin seems stuck for a moment longer, grabbing at air in Prompto and Iggy's general direction, and then it falls through the crack all at once. It lands on its feet, oddly gracious for such a revolting creature, swivels towards Prompto with a snarl, and leaps.

Prompto doesn't think. The goblin is barely the size of a six year old child, hardly reaching his elbow. Prompto shouldn't be as scared of it as he is. Ignis wouldn't be. Ignis would gut it like a fish without even getting dirty. Gladio would stomp it into the ground. Prompto, who's not half as strong or gracious as either of them, meets it halfway with a kick. His form is sloppy, but it's enough to send the daemon sprawling and give Prompto that one second he needs to think clearly.

He can't shoot and risk the daemons hearing it. He can't pull a dagger out of the armiger and risk the daemons seeing it. He can't let the goblin get to Iggy.

The goblin springs back to its feet and runs at Prompto with a horrifying screech.

Prompto can't let it scream.

He winds up and sends the daemon sprawling again with a well-aimed punch. In the adrenaline-fueled haze, Prompto's downright gleeful about it, grinning, barely managing to swallow back a cry of victory. He doesn't give it a chance to get back to its feet again—in two long strides he's on it, falling to his knees. He feels himself land on something soft and pliable, and the daemon yowls in pain. Prompto wraps his hand around its neck and presses the barrel of his gun into the hollow of its throat. He puts his entire weight into it.

The goblin lets out a choked-off scream, it's mouth wide open, eyes bulging. It looks surprisingly human in that moment, despite the sharp teeth and inhuman features. It thrashes and gurgles, but Prompto is considerably bigger, and between where he pins it by the throat and the knee wedged who knows where, the daemon can't budge him.

It's Prompto turn to snarl. "Just die," he chokes out in a voice that sounds nothing like his own. His forearms sting where the goblin's claws rake over them. It makes a grab for his face, desperate, but can't reach.

It dies slowly, for what feels like hours, but realistically is a much shorter span of time. A few seconds. A minute at worst. Eventually it stops squirming as if its strings have been cut. Prompto doesn't let go until it begins to dissolve under his fingers.

He flinches back as if burned, palms sticky with daemon gore. He stumbles to his feet, watching with wide eyes as the goblin turns back to what it came from—scourge and ash and slime—absorbed into the wooden floor until there's nothing left. He looks at his palms, not any more dirty than before all this started.

The adrenaline feels like a physical thing as it drains out of Prompto's body, leaving him feeling hollowed out and bruised. If there were anything in his stomach, it would be expelled onto the ground then and there. Instead, Prompto gags dry, chest heaving as he struggles for breath.

The forest is deadly quiet.

Prompto staggers to where Ignis is still unconscious, propped against the wall. Prompto's childishly thankful for that, too, now ashamed of the violent display that took place just feet away. He drops to a crouch next to Ignis, gun gripped in both hands and raised towards the ceiling.

He would do it again. If it came to it, Prompto would strangle an iron giant with his bare hands to protect his friends. It's little comfort, but it's something.

Prompto shakes and prays for the dawn.

---

It's barely dawn when Noctis and Gladio venture back into the woods, where they saw Prompto and Ignis last.

They spent a miserable, sleepless night at the nearest haven, barely far enough to warrant a drive in the Regalia. They took the car anyway, wordlessly agreeing it'd be for the best, just in case Ignis and Prompto were injured and unable to walk when they found them.

It's not hard to find the site of the battle—the singed trees and trampled bushes. The ground is raw where the red giant stomped all over it, and there's deep gouges in the earth where its sword came down upon it.

There's also no sign of either Ignis or Prompto.

From there, all Noct can do is follow Gladio, who in turn follows what little tracks the daemons left behind.

Noct cups his hands over his mouth and calls, "Prompto!" as Gladio does the same thing with Ignis' name just a few feet ahead, weaving through the trees after the spattering of little goblin footprints. The only reply they recieve are their own voices resonating among the trees, and the rustle of leaves as birds and other wildlife flee from them in fear.

Noct's voice gets more and more desperate with each passing second until it breaks at the end of Prompto's name. Noct clamps his mouth shut, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw hurts. He almost wishes Gladio would turn around and mock him for it, but he doesn't. He doesn't even seem to notice Noct's fallen silent, too focused on their search.

Noct drops his head into his palm, breathes to quell the panic rising in his chest, and presses his fingers into his eyes to stop the tears of frustration—and fear, steadily creeping up on him—and he almost takes them out when he collides, face-first, with something hard and warm and much taller than him.

He looks up and glares at Gladio's back, until he notices what has Gladio rooted to the spot. He follows his eyes to the ground, where the tracks they'd been following fork; one set, clearly daemonic, continues straight, further into the forest, while human footprints (suspiciously reminiscent of Prompto's boots—please, don't let it be just Noct's wishful thinking) turn to the left, towards a wooden cabin obviously long abandoned.

"Looks like he was lugging something heavy," Gladio says, voice deep. He sounds as exhausted as Noct feels. "Or someone."

He doesn't have to specify who he is—they both saw Prompto toss that last gravisphere in the opposite direction, before the giant separated them. They both saw Ignis by the sidelines, hanging by a thread.

"Prompto?" Noct calls out. It comes out strangled, like a little kids voice.

From inside the cabin, a dull thud. Like a fist banging on wood.

Noctis warps up the stairs, his blade buried in the door before he can even think about it. He doesn't bother pulling it out—it's still lodged in when he kicks the door off its hinges. The violence of his entry stirs up a cloud of dust and dirt, and Noct hides his face in the crook of his arm, stepping through the doorway.

There, wedged between a far corner and what might have been furniture once, crouches Prompto with Ignis slumped against him.

"Oh thanks the Astrals," Noctis says, exhaling hard. Then he realizes Prompto's gun is aimed at him. "Uh."

"Whoa there, kid," says Gladio from behind him. He at least sounds normal, his voice even, almost a little teasing. Forcefully cheerful, Noctis realizes. Usually, that's Prompto's job.

Prompto's eyes flicker from Noct to Gladio and back, and then they widen in recognition, as if he just saw them for the first time. He shudders all over and falls to his rear as his legs give out underneath him. The barrel of his gun knocks against the floor as Prompto drops the aim, but it stays firmly grasped between his hands.

Noctis doesn't warp this time, but he might as well have, he moves so fast. He crosses the cabin and sinks to his knees in front of his friends, only to be pushed to the side by Gladio as he crouches in front of Ignis.

It leaves Noct face to face with Prompto, who's watching him with red-rimmed, shiny eyes. "Hi," Noctis says, feeling like an idiot. Prompto's jaw works like he wants to say something back, but in the end he stays silent.

Noct glances sideways at Gladio and his fingers pressed to Ignis' neck, searching for a heartbeat. Their eyes meet, and Gladio nods once, firmly, like he's happy with what he's found. It's enough for Noctis—Ignis is in Gladio's capable hands now. In some ways, he's much better off than Prompto, who's stuck with Noct's awkward ass.

Noctis looks Prompto up and down, from the disheveled hair to the trickle of blood from a thin cut on Prompto's cheek down his throat, to the gun grasped in his palms. He swallows at the sight of Prompto's forearms—littered with deep, bloody tears, crusted with dried blood, like he's been gored by a wild animal. He forces himself to look up into Prompto's eyes instead. "Hey," he says, "you can let go of the gun, now. We got you."

Prompto closes his eyes and swallows hard. His hands twitch between his knees. "Can't," he chokes out eventually. He's shaking, Noctis realizes, and hard.

"Okay," Noct says, and shuffles a bit out of the way. He takes Prompto's hands between his own, and angles the gun away, just so that neither of them gets shot by accident should his fingers spasm any worse. He holds Prompto's hands for a moment, ignoring the stomach-rolling feeling of his friend's blood on his skin, running down his wrists and under Noct's palms where Prompto's wounds were reopened and are now freely bleeding. No wonder he's shaking so much—he must be delirious with blood loss.

He regrets for a moment that they didn't stock up on any of the more potent curatives while they've been waiting for dawn, but neither he nor Gladio wanted to stray too far. Noct squeezes Prompto's hands in his own, and starts to slowly unpeel his fingers from the grip, one by one. He expects resistance at first, but Prompto's pliant. It's not that he doesn't want to let go of his weapon, but more like he can't. Just like he said.

Noct exhales through his nose in a huff, just to relieve the tension. He hates this. How long did Prompto sit here like this, terrified and vigilant, while he and Gladio waited in the safety of a haven?

The gun falls out of Prompto's hands, and Noct catches it to banish it back into the armiger.

"There," he says. He squeezes Prompto's wrist, and then his fingers. He digs his thumbs into Prompto's palms, a proof to both of them that this is real. He looks up, and gives Prompto what is hopefully a reassuring smile. "These look bad," he says, nodding vaguely towards Prompto's forearms. "Did you square off with a daemon, dude?"

Prompto swallows. "Shooting's too loud," he says. His voice sounds croaky and deep. Noct realizes that, holy shit, Prompto did, and feels a pang of regret at his civilian best friend having to resort to beating a daemon to death with his hands. Noctis never should have let it come to this.

"Damn," Gladio says, almost offhandedly. "That's badass."

Prompto smiles, and it's crooked and nervous, but it's like the damn sun came up. Compared to the alternative, to what else they could have found in this rotten cabin, it's everything.

For lack of anything better to do, Noct pats Prompto's knee. "Let's get out of here." He turns to Gladio, who's more or less successful in nagging Ignis into consciousness. "Hey, Specky," Noctis says.

Ignis squints at him like he's never seen him before, but he murmurs in reply, "Highness."

Noct's face splits into a grin, and Gladio looks pleased. "C'mon, up with you," he says, and carefully hauls Ignis to his feet. "You got blondie?"

Noctis hums, and then has his hands full with said blondie, who's already trying shakily to rise to his feet. He can't quite manage it, and ends up leaning hard into Noct, only barely shuffling his feet forward. Ignis isn't faring much better—in fact, it's only his pride that keeps Gladio from straight up bridal-carrying him to the car.

Noctis manhandles Prompto into the front seat and fastens his seat belt for him, so that Prompto, in his exhausted, ragdoll state, doesn't fall out of the car if Noct makes a sharp turn. Prompto fumbles around Noct's hands like he wants to do it himself, but his fingers feel like ice when they brush Noct's. He grabs Prompto's hands, and leans over so that they're nearly forehead to forehead. "We don't have any curatives on us," he says in lieu of an apology, realizing how stupid that is. "Are you gonna be okay? It won't be long till we get to an outpost, and then I'll get you all good again."

Prompto's wide-eyed and pale and still shaking like a leaf, with shock or blood loss or both. He nods. "Yeah," he says, looking at Noctis like he might disappear. He doesn't sink back into the seat until Noct stands up and closes the door behind himself.

"You guys good?" Noct calls to the back seat, rounding the front of the Regalia to the driver's seat.

"Yup," Gladio calls back. Ignis looks a mix between pained and annoyed, like this is all just a nuisance to him.

Noct doesn't bother thinking about how much he would have missed that look if things had gone south.

---

Upon looking at them, wounded and bloody, the clerk at the motel basically throws the room keys at them. Gladio promises to come back with payment later, and they're hauling Ignis and Prompto up the stairs and through the door. Ignis is deposited on the bed, and Noctis steers Prompto towards the bathroom.

Gladio's already in there, collecting towels and filling a bucket with water, and then he beckons Noct in. "All yours," he says and beelines for Ignis. Noct leads Prompto inside, sits him on the counter next to the sink, and pushes the door nearly closed.

Prompto looks like a little boy, sitting there on the counter, pale and trembling. His eyes look almost unbearably bright and wet, like he's on the verge of tears.

"Dude," Noct says, voice low and unsteady.

Prompto fidgets, wringing his hands in his lap, but he gives Noct a smile, wide and slanted. "You should see the other guy," he says, only stuttering a little. "The goblin, I mean. Not Iggy."

Noctis laughs, a bit breathlessly. "I bet." He grabs another towel and wets it in the sink. It would be better to rinse off the wounds under the running water, but Noct's not sure Prompto would be able to stand for even that long. The sponge bath is going to have to be enough, and hopefully, the curatives will take care of all the rest.

Prompto's watching him, his still shaking hands folded palms up in his lap. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his expression open—if he's expecting pain, he's resigned to it. He doesn't flinch away or wince when Noct lifts the towel.

Noct clears his throat. "This is probably gonna hurt," he says. "Sorry."

"'s okay," Prompto replies with a small smile. "I trust you."

Noct's heart flutters in his ribcage like a hummingbird. He can't do anything but smile back at Prompto, helpless. He really wants to hug him, but he also wants to get this over with. He hears the door slam outside, and knows Gladio is off to get bases for the more potent potions. Soon, he'll have the means to rid Prompto and Ignis of the remnants of the pain, and the shock, blood loss, and exhaustion are just a matter of rest.

They're okay. Ignis is too, or Gladio wouldn't have gone outside. They're okay.

They're okay.

He carefully starts dabbing at Prompto's forearms, cleaning off the grime and debris. He winces in sympathy whenever Prompto hisses or recoils, but doesn't let up until he deems Prompto's arms sufficiently clean. There's a gash that's still oozing blood, and Noct folds the cleaner side of the towel over it. He dabs at the cut on Prompto's cheek next, and Prompto does flinch then, but in surprise rather than pain.

"Hey," Noct says, partly as a distraction. "Thank you."

Prompto is looking somewhere over Noct's right shoulder. He frowns. "What for?"

For not dying, Noct thinks. "For taking care of Specs," he says. "And yourself."

Prompto nods. His eyes go a bit tight at the corners. "I choked a goblin to death." He bites his lips, like he's nervous if it's okay.

"Good," Noct replies instantly in the kind of voice he uses in formal events when someone pisses him off, the kind that sounds a bit like his dad's. The kind that leaves no room for argument.

Prompto's a Crownsguard in title, but he was never meant to fight like this—he was meant to board a boat to Altissia and witness Noct's wedding and get tipsy off expensive Tenebraen wine, celebrating peace. He wasn't meant to get caught up in the middle of Noct's war. It's scary for Noctis, and he knows it's scary for Ignis and Gladio, too—and they've been trained since childhood to do what it takes to protect themselves and each other. He can't imagine what it's like for Prompto, who cries at cute puppy videos on the internet—killing something and watching it die. Even if it is a daemon.

Noct sets the towel aside and folds his arms around Prompto's shoulders, tipping him forward. Prompto's stiff for a moment, but then he slumps into Noctis with an exhale, and stays there like it's the most comfortable place in the world. Noctis doesn't know which one of them shakes more, and he doesn't care. Silence falls over them, warm and comfortable.

Outside, the door opens and closes again, and Gladio and Ignis exchange soft, muffled greetings. "Hey," Gladio says from the other side of the bathroom door and pounds his fist on it, once. "Get out. I brought the good stuff."

Noctis tightens his arms around Prompto for a moment, and lets go. If anything, Prompto looks even more tired now, halfway to sleeping, pitched forward into Noct and his body heat.

"Come on," Noct says, and pulls Prompto off the counter and towards the door. He lets the dirty towel fall to the tiles. "Let's get you all fixed up."

Prompto hums, and lets himself be led outside and pushed onto one of the beds. Specs is sitting on the other one, still squinting like the flickering light bulb hurts his eyes, but he's mostly clean of dirt and blood and dressed in his sleepwear. Gladio steps up to Prompto instantly, crouching in front of him with a glass of water in hand and one of the more indulgent smiles he's capable off.

The 'good stuff' is waiting for Noctis on the coffee table just a few feet away, impossible to miss—a dozen of cans strewn all over the tabletop as if Gladio just dropped an armful of them on it. Noct should get on that right now—the sooner they have curatives, the sooner they can put all this behind them. He still hesitates, hovering instead over Ignis and Prompto, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Gladio pushes him towards the table with a frustrated huff of air. "I've got this," he tells Noctis. "You're not helping them much by just gawking at them, so go do your damn job."

Noct doesn't want to. Something in his chest is still coiled tight—an inexplicable feeling that Ignis and Prompto might disappear if he takes his eyes off them, but he's also too tired to fight Gladio's logic. Noct sits down heavily in one of the old, filthy armchair and, one by one, squeezes the cans between his palms until they light up with magic. He pauses every once in a while to just watch or listen as Gladio hands Ignis a glass of water or bugs Prompto into dumping his filthy clothes and switching to a clean shirt instead. Just to make sure they're still there.

It doesn't take long to go through all the cans, but Noct feels years older after he does. Potion making always leaves him hollowed out and depleted. He rises to his feet with a sigh, slowly and carefully like an old man. "Catch," he says in warning and tosses one hi-elixir to Gladio, keeping the other one and crossing over to Prompto, patting him on the shoulder. "Here you go. Just like I promised."

Prompto fumbles with the can a bit and dribbles some of the potion onto the covers, but he manages to drink most of it. He downs it like a man dying of thirst, and the wounds on his arms shimmer and close and disappear, leaving behind only smooth, pink skin.

The shake stays. Prompto finishes the can with a loud exhale, and falls back onto the bed with a moan. On the other bed, Ignis finishes his elixir as well. When he looks at Noctis, his expression is finally free of pain.

"Feeling better?" Noct asks.

"Quite," Ignis replies. "Thank you, Highness."

Gladio, crouched by the bed on Ignis' side, clips him on the shoulder and gets to his feet. "Well, I dunno about you, but I'm freaking starving. I'm gonna grab us some grub from the Nest, how's that sound?"

It sounds like heaven. Noct hums in appreciation at the thought, and Ignis agrees as well—testament to his levels of exhaustion. Prompto stays mostly silent, sprawled on his back and staring at the ceiling.

Gladio laughs. "That's what I thought," he says and grabs his wallet, leaving the room once again.

Left behind in silence, Noctis looks from Prompto to Ignis and back. "You guys good? Cause I kinda wanna…" He trails off and jerks his thumb in the vague direction of the bathroom.

Ignis is rubbing his eyes with fingers, leaning hard on his other arm. "We are now, thanks to your magic. Go ahead."

"Knock yourself out," Prompto adds. He sounds rough, like he forgot how to use his voice. He must realize it, too, because he clears his throat. "Not literally, of course."

"Right," Noct says, and closes the bathroom door behind himself.

Crisis averted.

It's like all of Noct's energy drains out of him, and he slumps on the closed door, head thumping against it. Breathe in, breathe out. They're okay. They're okay. We're okay. He repeats it in the rhythm of his heart beat.

Ignis' voice drifts from the other room. "Prompto, I'd like to thank you for what you've done today."

Noct closes his eyes and listens.

"Hm? Oh." Prompto's voice drops so low Noct nearly can't make it out. "T'was nothing. Anyone would have done that."

"Surely not anyone," Ignis replies. "I was a dead weight. You would have been entirely within your rights to leave me to save your life. No one would hold that against you."

Something ugly and wounded rises within Noct, even though he knows Ignis is… not wrong. He's heard enough stories, from Dave and the other hunters. People get left behind all the time. He's seen his fair share of dog tags.

Prompto's tone mirrors Noct's thoughts. "What? I'd never!"

Ignis, on the other hand, sounds almost amused. "You wouldn't, and yet you could have. You have undoubtedly saved my life today, so please—don't insult me by pretending it was 'nothing' and accept my gratitude."

There's silence for a moment, presumably while Prompto mentally calculates through Iggy's careful manipulation. "Well," he says in the end. "When you put it that way." He sounds closer to his usual self than he has the whole morning, pleased at the praise yet casually dismissive of it.

"Rest now," Ignis says. "Let us watch over you. You've earned it."

Prompto mumbles a quiet affirmative. The bed sheets rustle.

Tomorrow, they'll most likely lose their room deposit for all the ruined towels, and listen to Prompto whine that they let him sleep in dirt and grime without a shower. They will pile back into the Regalia and go hustle for a double payment for this cursed hunt. They'll sign up for another one or two to make up for the gil they've drowned in all the potions and elixirs. Rinse and repeat.

They will be alive.

Noctis closes his eyes and smiles.