It's late.

The roof of the tent is black in the darkness and thick enough that Prompto can't see the moon, though it's light seeps through the not fully closed flap. It's mostly quiet; trees russeling in the wind, the distant howl of daemons, the snoring of his friends.

He can't sleep.

They're only a few weeks into their trip, but to Prompto it feels like months. He remembers the excitement he had felt before they set out; remembers that elated feeling of belonging.

As though he'd ever belong to their group.

He had spent enough time with Noctis before that he didn't think much would change during their trip. They'd still wake up together and banter and tease each other. They'd still annoy Ignis and Gladio, still stay up way too late talking about nothing at all. That's what he thought.

And, for the most part, that's true. They still fight to wake Noctis up every morning and they still do training every day and they still play King's Knight before bed.

Except.

Except he hadn't known that the other three were in a relationship.

Or, maybe they weren't; maybe this is something new. Or maybe they aren't, and Prompto's just reading way too much into it. Maybe the things they're doing are normal for friends; Prompto sure wouldn't know.

But, it doesn't seem like friends would fall asleep in each others arms. He and Noctis never had. And it doesn't seem like friends would wake up to someone running fingers through their hair. Doesn't seem like friends would lay their head on another's lap and take a nap, and it doesn't seem like friends would smile at them like they're the sun.

But, Prompto wouldn't know.

He wouldn't know, and he doesn't know, and he wants to know – he wants to know whether they're together, whether this roadtrip to Lady Lunafreya is going to break them apart, wants to know whether he's been a bad friend or if he's just not as important –

When he wakes up to see Ignis and Noctis kissing, he knows. That much he can understand, from the books and movies he's seen. Even if it's not the passion filled heated kisses from those movies, even if it's something soft and sweet and something that makes his chest tighten for reasons unknown, he knows.

And when Gladio passes by Ignis while he's making dinner that evening, presses a kiss to his temple and they smile, he knows.

And when Noctis curls up against Gladio's side at night, and they fall asleep in each others arms, he knows.

He knows.

Prompto isn't strong, subjectively. Gladio has trained all of his life for this; Noctis and Ignis are probably the same. Prompto had been given years worth of training in a couple of months, and then been sent out to protect Noctis.

He tries to give it his all during battle. He shoots and shoots and shoots until his eyes blur and he can't quite aim as well; then he pulls out the other weapons given to him and runs until he can't feel his feet.

But it's not enough.

He knows it's not, when after battle he's passed a potion or two, and everyone else is fine. When he falls and can't even stand up from nausea while the other three fight on. When it takes two hits to take him down and ten to make Gladio stumble.

So it's no wonder that he isn't as important. That Ignis passes by and ruffles Noctis' hair but doesn't touch him. That Gladio slings an arm around Noctis' shoulders while he's left to walk alone.

And he realizes that this feeling is jealousy – realizes that it isn't fair, that of course people are going to feel differently about different people, that he hasn't even said anything so how could they know.

But when he sees the look in their eyes as they watch each other, sees the way they interact, like there's no one else they'd rather be around, he knows that it won't ever be the same for him.

Rain begins to fall against the tent. It's slow, at first, a few drops here and there. Within a few minutes, it changes to a downpour.

Prompto likes the smell of it around him; cleansing, refreshing. It downs out the sound of his thoughts for the moment.

It takes a while for Prompto realize.

He's already accepted that he's jealous – jealous of the familiarity they have, the affection. He's jealous of the fact that they're so close.

He's grateful for their friendship, of course – he'd take that over nothing without hesitation. And he's thankful to have been able to join their group.

But.

But watching them makes him want more.

It's not his place, he reminds himself, again and again and again. It's not his place to want more, not from them. Shouldn't their friendship be enough?

(But when Noctis offers him a hand to get up during battle, or when Ignis' hand brushes his when he takes his plate, or when Gladio is patching up another cut on his arm or leg or chest, he doesn't want to let go.)

That's all he thinks it is, for a while. Just jealousy. But he's always been too introspective for that – oblivious to the outside world, but he can't hide anything from himself.

He's in love.

Maybe that's too strong a word. He likes them. He wants to be part of their group – actually part. He wants to be able to hold hands with them, or hug them, or kiss them. He wants the closeness and the affection and the feeling that he's not alone.

But he could never force himself on them like that. He already has a hunch that Noctis asked him to come along out of pity – poor Prompto would have been all alone if he hadn't. He wouldn't want something like that to happen to a relationship that obviously means to much to him. Prompto's not that mean.

But it doesn't stop him from wanting.

He thinks the rain might actually lure him to sleep – hopes it does. Gladio is snoring beside him and he wants nothing more than to curl against him and feel the rise and fall of his chest.

As time goes on and they get further and further into their trip, those feelings just get stronger. Both him wanting them, and him knowing he would just ruin everything.

The world is a mess, and he doesn't want to add to their worries. He'd much rather shoulder his own weight than add any to theirs.