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Prompto never claims himself to be a strong guy, but he sure knows how to save his friends.
At least, that’s what you have surmised so far in his tiny little tale. And to be honest, you only want to enjoy listening to Prompto’s hilarious account of how Noctis transformed into a toad on one of their hunts in Vesperpool. You only want to enjoy watching him animatedly recount his version of events, his voice even mimicking an angry Gladio and a severely worried Ignis. You only want to enjoy this quiet date with Prompto, to revel in this conversation over at the privacy of your apartment. You only want to listen, to focus, to concentrate.
If only you could stop thinking just for one moment.
You really think Prompto likes you? Oh and by the way, check your mail. People are going to hate your work, for sure.
Under the table, you clench and unclench your fists. Prompto drops another of his jokes, one that you fail to catch—but still, you flash him a smile. Actually, it’s more of an overly eager grin. But you hope he didn’t catch that tiny twitch on the side of your mouth, or how your reaction was three seconds off.
Anyway, real talk, though—do you honestly think Prompto loves you? I really think he doesn’t. But going back, that thing in your work just doesn’t feel right.
“Babe, you okay?” he asks you, still wearing his charming, megawatt smile. But you didn’t exactly hear that when your thoughts are way louder than his voice, drumming in your ears like a dissonant marching band.
Of course, you’re not okay. You’re far from okay. Here you are, your stupid grin shifting into a weak wince, choking on your own faceless sadness that claws its way out of your throat, crushing your heart underneath a nameless fear. And still, here you are, pretending everything is okay, so fucking okay, as you sit in front of the man who only loves you and adores you, you, you.
“Hey, baby,” Prompto tries again, reaching for your hand, his voice now quivering with worry. He says your name this time, but you didn’t quite hear it again even after the fourth time he says it, not while your thoughts are still busy kicking and screaming at you with all the faults and mistakes that wasn’t even probably yours to begin with.
Of course, you’re still not okay. There are days when it really is just so painfully difficult to stay okay. And you can’t bear for Prompto to see this, this side of you spiraling to a familiar abyss, that particular space that rests inside your head where a graveyard of worries has taken its residence, always waiting to raise its army of inhibitions to haunt you at the most inopportune time.
But Prompto doesn’t even mind. Because here he is, confronting your ruthless ghosts, battling your monsters, braving through your pain, like his very own heart is being knocked right out of his chest with every snagging breath that you take.
“Breathe with me. Deep breaths,” Prompto says with a kind smile that it almost breaks your heart to see it. He kneels in front of you, and he squeezes your hands, firm and gentle all at once. He thumbs your wrists and rubs tiny circles on your skin as if to check your pulse, as if to guarantee himself the knowledge that you’re still with him.
That you’re still his.
A great sense of relief washes over him when you finally let your eyes wander to meet his. Prompto’s usually cheerful face is replaced by an agony that could never suit him. He bites his lip, and you find your voice. But the one voice you find is that self-deprecating little bitch that always repels the good things that come your way.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a bloody piece of work—”
“Not to me.” He only pulls you into his arms. “Not if it's you.” His warmth and the scent of his perfume and how he holds you with such tenderness only dissolves you into tears.
“Prompto—”
“Don’t,” he firmly cuts you off, as if he knows the next words that will come right out of your mouth. “I won’t leave you. I’ll stay, just like you’ve always stayed with me.”
“Look at me, I’m miserable—”
“I am, too. Then we’ll be miserable together,” he whispers in your ear, stubborn and defiant. “I’d rather be miserable with you than with anyone else.”
Your hands seize the back of his shirt as you burrow your face on his shoulders, drenching yourself in the comfort of his touch, his grip, his every muscle, and every ounce of him that promises to be yours. Prompto may have never claimed himself to be a strong guy, but he sure knows how to love you at your worst.
And in your own darkness, he holds you even closer. And for the first time, in your own darkness, you feel safe.