AN: A prompt by Elillierose. She wanted a sickfic with Prompto and Iggy hurt/comfort. Lol, I'm giving her this shit instead. :D But hey, it still fills the prompt!

Beta read by MysteriousBean

Warnings: heavy themes, dealing with a severe (terminal?) disease, rated M for suicidal intentions (dun dun duuun!). You're welcome!

The title is from the movie A Cure for Wellness. I shamelessly stole that. But I just love that movie, and I it sorta stuck to my head.

A Cure for Wellness

The rhythmic beat of disco pop echoed from some nightclub in the distance, it was like the urban jungle around him had pulsed with the reverberations. Like the entire city was a huge organ – a pumping, pulsing, living thing, streets and alleyways stretching over and across it like veins, carrying people on with their daily lives, filled with chores and leisure and work and pleasure. Prompto drew in deep sniffs of the city air, the stench of gas fumes mixing with the salty aroma of a dinner cooking somewhere, and he gazed at the pink, purple and orange sky, the setting sun painting it with hues like watercolors. The warm light made his freckles stand out on his fair complexion. A breeze tickled his cheek gently, and although it was still warm, it carried the first whisper of autumn. He swallowed thickly.

A few car horns honked somewhere below him, the sounds drowned by the cries of seagulls gliding over his head in search of the next toppled-over dumpster or an inattentive fool with a tasty treat to snatch. Prompto was left gazing after them as the birds disappeared behind a skyscraper, feeling oddly quiet. Empty, like a human-shaped echo chamber, now filled with the cries of seagulls.

The resounding shrills were almost enough to mask the too-slow-to-be-casual steps approaching him from behind; Prompto felt his neck muscles tighten, and his head jerked a little to the direction of the sound. Not enough to look, merely to indicate that he was aware of the other's presence. Determined to keep his eyes forward, Prompto waited for the person to speak.

"Prompto."

The tone was soft but firm, demanding his attention but not patronizing, and Prompto found himself curious to look, but somehow it wasn't quite enough to tear his eyes from the cityscape laid bare before him.

"Hey, Iggy."

"Prompto. What are you doing?" The young man shrugged, but didn't give a reply. What could he possibly say to that, anyway? The words were pointless. All the while, Ignis had taken slow steps closer, still about five yards from him, but the space between them grew narrower, slowly, carefully.

"Prompto, come down from the ledge." Ignis held a small pause; the scuff of a leather shoe against gravel took another step. "Please?"

Some 160 feet above the ground, the sky-blue eyes were squeezed shut, as if the young man had feared to hear those words. "Why?"

Ignis didn't reply immediately. Looking like he was choosing his words very carefully, the royal adviser shifted his weight ever so slightly closer. "Because you have other alternatives yet. Other chances. You are not a quitter, Prompto. You're stronger than that."

Something about those words ignited something deep within the distressed man. All his sorrow, all his fear, all the feelings of unfairness, tied up into a poisonous bundle, now darkening his expression, coating his voice with spite as he spat, "What do you think you know about it?! Nothing!" The sky-blue eyes snapped to glare at Ignis, salty, reddened and exhausted, and yet like two furnaces, blazing and wild. The look of raw fury and desperation was accentuated by the shapes of his skull. A look of a cornered animal that froze Ignis on the spot.

"No. I suppose I don't. But I know you, Prompto. This cannot truly be what you want," Ignis tried, keeping his tone persuading but an edge of pleading had seeped into his guarded demeanor.

Prompto's teeth grit into a visible snarl, and he turned away again, eyes squeezing shut. "Don't…"

"Prompto, please..."

Drawing in a shuddering breath, the young man let his head fall backwards to gaze at the darkening sky. A lone tear streaked down his face, and he tried to shoo it away with a few rapid blinks. Another shuddery breath, and he turned to face his friend again. Gulping, lip quivering, Prompto opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again as an abrupt sob escaped him. "Three months, Iggy," he started, voice broken, barely audible. Then he fixed him with a scorching, pained look and cried out a strangled, "Three. Months!"

"Cheers!"

"Congrats, Prompto!"

"To a milestone, and the first of many yet to come."

"Thanks, guys. Cheers!"

The four pints clanged together in a delighting way, and the four men exchanged laid back, jovial looks as they gulped down their drinks, exchanged a few laughs. Gladio told dirty jokes, some of them leaving especially the youngest of the group choking on his beer while his face flushed bright red all the way up his ears. Noctis tried to challenge his shield, falling short, though, and with a slight grimace of embarrassment, he, too, decided to turn his attention to his drink. Rather than his friend poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek in a way that left little to imagination.

Apparently Gladio had enough of tormenting his company, for he excused himself to go get them all another round. His way to lighten the mood again, and certainly no one had a problem with that. As the shield was waiting to be served at the bar, Noctis emptied the last of his beer and slammed the pint to the table, ignoring the look Ignis gave him at the loud noise. Instead, he leaned his elbow onto the table and turned his attention to Prompto. Or should he say, the new Glaive. "So, why do you wanna be a Glaive, anyway? Not gonna lie, though, it's kinda flattering," he shrugged with a broad smile.

"Dude, hello?! Because it's awesome! It's what I've always wanted, man." He held a small pause, a smirk spreading onto his face. "Plus, I get to wear the uniform. Chicks dig the uniform!"

"Well, haven't you had your eyes on that one Glaive since forever? Crowe?" Noctis smirked smugly. "Isn't she a bit old for you? Don't tell me she's your motivation?"

Prompto, flashing a little brighter red than would be passable to put on beer alone, returned the smirk, "Nah. My reasons are my own, man." He downed a gulp of his drink before adding, "I sure won't mind her around, though."

"When we were in middle school, you said you wanted to be a vet," Noctis tossed out with feigned nonchalance. Prompto made a face and punched him lightly to the shoulder.

"You know what I meant. Not, like, always-always. But yeah, I… I guess it's about dedicating yourself to something," Prompto almost sighed as he took another sip; then his expression cleared like he had remembered something. "But dude, you seriously remember that vet thing?" Noctis just shrugged.

"Of course. I think you talked about it a lot back then. Besides, you've always had a knack with animals."

"Well, maybe I'll found a canine division into the Kingsglaive then," Prompto smirked with a toast. "Yay, more beer!" Gladiolus returned, with a tray with a round for all of them. Noctis grabbed his with a flick of his wrist as a thank you, whereas Ignis only reluctantly accepted his. He had yet to finish the last half of his previous one.

Prompto had been accepted as a trainee Glaive in the batch of 755. He had cleared the entrance exams with flying colors, impressing even the board with his score on weapons' practical. Also the physical, medical and psychological examinations, all cleared. Of course, there had been talking behind his back, how his princey friend was pulling the strings for his Goldielocks bestie. But Prompto knew better. This was because of his own hard work, the proof of it fresh on his mind. He had taken his oath earlier that day. He was officially a Glaive now. And it called for celebrations.

"Being a Glaive certainly holds prestige, but it is a path of life. Are you certain you wouldn't rather pursue a more down-to-earth career?" Ignis asked.

"Nah! This is it, man. This's what I've wanted," Prompto shook his head, glowing with pride. "Besides, no getting the cold feet now, I guess. I already took the oath, anyway. So I'm practically in His Majesty's Secret Service already." Gladio grunted.

"Ugh, that movie sucked!"

"Knock-out!" the game announcer declared; Noctis slammed his palm against the couch cushion with a frustrated grunt, Prompto flashing him a broad smirk. On the screen, Noctis' character was thrown down from the fighting ring, the victor spewing insults after the defeated challenger.

"Tough luck, buddy. But hey, at least you tried."

"I don't get it! How come you always get me with that five-hit combo?! What's your friggin' magic?"

"No magic, man, that's your thing. Just skill, baby," he smirked smugly, wriggling his fingers. Noctis shot him a dirty look.

"Rematch. Now." Prompto sighed in an exaggerated way and shook his head.

"Alright. But I'm not going easy on you."

"I'm not expecting you to." Not long after Noctis was groaning as he again had his ass handed to him by the blond. "C'mon!"

Prompto was about to say something in return, but was interrupted by his cellphone going off on the floor. Noctis had half a second to glance at the screen: an unknown number. Light brows frowned. "Hello?"

"Is this Cadet Argentum speaking?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"This is Dr. Hastings–"

In retrospect, Noctis is sure he could pinpoint the exact second when Prompto heard the words 'we've found something from your blood count'. The blond's face fell, the frown descended from his brows all the way to his eyelids; his lips cracked in silent question.

"We need to run more tests."

The rest of the phone call went by in a fog. Prompto heard the woman talking, remembered answering something. Eventually he realized that he was hearing the dial tone signaling that the other had hung up on him. His hand shook; his fingers were clutching the phone almost tightly enough to crack it. And when Noctis, looking concerned, demanded to know just what in the name of the Six had that been about, Prompto couldn't answer him.

"I'm sorry."

'No.'

The blue eyes had widened, flicking between the two hazel ones of the woman sitting across from him, looking for something, anything. A sliver of wishful thinking. A fraction of fraudulence. Anything. Right. Left. In between. Nothing. He found nothing.

'No…'

Just the words.

The devastating, horrible words.

His teeth grit.

The plastic cup in his hand was crushed with a sharp screak, like a nail dragging down a chalk board. Prompto didn't even notice it; the knuckles squeezed so hard they were white, his entire arm shook.

"Bullshit," he hissed behind clenched teeth. "It's- it's… just…" The cup was flung across the room blindly, with a white-hot yell of overwhelm; Prompto snatched his arm to hug it into his chest as he doubled over, his breathing came in shallow heaves. Sweat was sheening on his quivering shoulders.

Dr. Hastings looked at him sympathetically, allowing the young man to crumble. She didn't interrupt the desolate sobs as they came, not until Prompto's breaths had eased into shuddering, wet pants. The young man took the offered tissue, a whole handful of them, cleaning his nose the best he could. Hastings let him, waited until he had the cadet's full attention.

"S-so," Prompto started, but had to gulp to the sound of his own voice. So strained. So frightened. "W-what happens now?" Dr. Hastings told him about the possible courses of action. That it wasn't hopeless. There were treatments, it was still curable. She explained what was happening, how they would proceed, what his prognosis was like at this stage of the disease. Prompto found himself nodding and grunting idly every once in a while, but he hardly remembered anything about it, just bits and pieces. He walked out of the clinic absentmindedly, feeling cold and shivering despite the warmth of the July afternoon.

They could tell from afar that whatever it was that Prompto had heard, it was bad. The three men exchanged worried looks at his appearance as he wobbled towards the car, each step heavy like he had to force it. Prompto's eyes were on the ground, head hung and his posture slumped. He looked miserable. Ignis was the first to get out, the others not far behind him.

"Prompto?!" Noctis' voice was drenched with worry; the said man visibly flinched at the sound of it, turning his head to try and hide his pained expression from them. In vain, of course.

Forcing forth the collected tone, Ignis laid a hand on the trembling man's shoulder and asked, "What did the doctor say?"

Those words brought upon an electrified silence. Expectant but fearful. Prompto's eyes squeezed shut tighter, his lips pulled back into a hopeless snarl as the initial shame beckoned him to hide his suffering. Realizing that it wouldn't work – and would he even have wanted to? – he let his head roll back to the front, but couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He knew what he would see, what kind of eyes they would look at him with, and the mere thought of facing it was unbearable. Prompto's lip quivered as he cracked them open, mulling the words over and over on his tongue as if it would make it easier to say them. "I-I… I have leukemia. It's- it's acute!"

They started him on chemotherapy two days later.

Noctis helped him pack for the week he would spend in the hospital for the induction phase. The prince had been reluctant, mainly to accept the news – the unspeakable, world-shattering news – but seeing the state they had left his friend in, and not knowing what else to do, Noctis had practically invited himself over to crash at Prompto's place for the couple of days it took to get ready. And in the end, it was thanks to him that Prompto at least had all that he needed to go with him. Prompto himself had pretty much shut down with the news. Wandering around his apartment like a ghost, gathering a little something here and putting together another few small items there, he wasn't helping. Had it not been for Noct, Prompto would have walked in with barely a toothbrush and a pair of boxers, one sock and a stack of comic books.

But could you blame him? Could anyone?

Looking up at the glossy glass paneling of the Royal Mors Hospital, his backpack hanging from one shoulder and a gym bag sitting by his side, Prompto waged a silent battle with his rising fear. That illuminous palace of elegance and intellect, for him, it represented nothing but torment and trepidation. His heart was strangling him, hammering in his throat in a suffocating way as he tried to summon the courage.

"Prom?" Noctis asked gently. Not prodding, not pressuring. Soft. Prompto could hear his fear. "Are… are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Of course not," he couldn't help snorting, his voice breaking a little as he shook his head. "But don't really have a choice here, do I?"

"You'll be fine, Prom," the raven tried to console, but couldn't quite mask the what-if in his voice. Wincing at the face his friend made, Noctis tried to cover it up, "We'll be over to see you, like, every day."

'That's not the point,' Prompto thought, and surely Noctis must have known it too, but it was meant kindly, and Prompto appreciated it. He took a deep breath that only shuddered a little and said quietly, "Alright. Let's go."

His room is white. The walls, the curtains, the bedsheets, the ceiling, the lamp shades – so damn white! It was making his head hurt.

Prompto squeezed his eyes shut and bit back the feeling of nausea as it rose up his chest like a high tide. His breaths coming in hasty sniffs, he fought the dizziness as his head spun. His fingers gripped the bedsheets tightly, trying to hold on to something, anything. Anything to chase away his discomfort.

Next to his hand, the clear tube snaked up and over his abdomen, disappearing under his sleeveless, where the catheter was inserted into his chest. Around the puncture point, a large bruise colored his skin, and he tried not to put pressure on it as a series of coughs scratched his throat. The jerking motions sent jolts of pain raking up and down his back and abs. Gulping down to ease the ache in his trachea, Prompto subconsciously pressed himself tighter against the pillow in an attempt to escape it, to escape all of this. Unwellness washed over him again, and he couldn't hold it back any more. Flinging himself from the bed, Prompto knew he wouldn't make it to the bathroom. Finding the trashcan in time, the fingers grabbed it for dear life as he vomited. Guttural and raw retches. Nothing but acids; he had hardly been able to keep anything in for a couple of days. It left his mouth dry, the feeling of parched leather on his tongue, and the bitter taste making him want to wash himself.

"Son of a bitch…" he muttered, wiping his face to his hand as he slowly got up from the floor, careful in case another wave came over. Step by step, he stumbled to the small en suite bathroom; the toothbrush, now! Grabbing it so tightly his knuckles were white, Prompto went to scrub away the remnants of the foul taste.

It wasn't the minty flavor he had expected that mixed into the intoxicating cocktail on his tongue. It was copper. Letting out a muffled yelp of confusion, Prompto's eyes widened at the streak of blood trickling down his lip.

"Hrmph?!"

He came close to dropping the toothbrush as the initial shock coursed through him. His mind catching on, he slapped a hand to hastily wipe it off; the taste of copper was suddenly the only aroma on his palette. Prompto hesitated for a second before cracking his lips open enough to see it. To see crimson. His gums were bleeding. No wonder he tasted metal. Seeping out from seemingly everywhere, it coated his teeth disgustingly; he sucked his lip in to hide it, swallowing some of it in an involuntary gulp. Doing the only sensible thing he could think of, Prompto rinsed his mouth, and rinsed it and rinsed it and rinsed it. When finally satisfied, and the bleeding had died down, he slumped to lean against his sink, head hung, his eyes avoiding the mirror. He feared what he would see in there if he looked. The ghost of himself. This living dead encasing of a soul that he had become. His lip quivered with a sob that fought to get out. "W-what is happening to me?" A sound between an utterance and a whisper, broken, desolate. "Stop it…" 'I want you to stop it.' "Anyone... make it go away," he mouthed as his legs grew tired of supporting his weight anymore. Sagging onto his knees, he rested his head against the porcelain, the coolness soothing against his heated skin. "Please…"

The white curtains on his window flapped a little in the breeze, the shifting of the fabric hardly loud enough to drown underneath it the broken sobs sounding from the bathroom.

Noctis kept to his word. He visited every day. Ignis and Gladio were with him on most times, too, but unlike Noctis, the older men had other engagements keeping them from time to time. They brought him some munchies in case he felt like having some, but Prompto barely touched them, only took a few mainly just to make them happy – and not look like an ungrateful idiot. Truthfully, there was little his stomach could tolerate at the moment, mainly just easily digestible vegetables, potato or fish foods; the toxins pumped into him 24/7 were messing with his system. It took poison to fight poison. The drugs were horrendously strong; he was on a combination of two, each of them potentially lethal in their own right if dosed improperly or on false grounds. The constant feeling of grogginess and nausea wasn't really lifting up his appetite. But seeing him eat whatever they brought for him seemed to make them happy, so Prompto always tried to eat at least something.

And he had learned to wait for the afternoons, when Noctis would be off his classes and come over. He had learned to love the moments he shared with his friends. They would spend time reading comic books together, watching movies or just talking. Trying to forget everything else and just be. Although the look on Noctis' face when he had first caught a glimpse of the tube plunging itself underneath Prompto's skin hadn't left him. Most likely never would. He had never seen a look so stupefied, so mournful on his friend's face. Being the reason for it didn't sit well with Prompto.

But they tried. One day, Noctis came in with a set of two brand-new handheld gaming consoles – the rich kid – and they had sat hammering the buttons for hours. Ignis and Gladio had come over that day as well, and for a moment it had felt like everything was back to normal again. Like everything was alright. They had chatted, laughed, devoured the bucketful of chips and popcorn Gladio had brought over as they binge-watched some of Prompto's favorite TV shows.

And then they had to leave, with promises of being back tomorrow and wishes of getting a goodnight's sleep. And Prompto was back to his lonesome suffering. Back to his private fight with fate, one that he didn't know the outcome of.

It went on for a week. When he was discharged the next Tuesday, Prompto all but ran out of the doors and didn't look back.

He held his hands against the smooth surface, leaning his weight a little more to the left. The chapped lips were parted to let out intermittent, heaving breaths that lived on the mirror, the moisture painting foggy shapes for a moment before evaporating. The blue eyes, once sparkling with eagerness and hunger for life, now dimmed and unfocused, staring at the reflection of a stranger in disbelief.

Prompto couldn't believe what he was seeing. The withered creature in the mirror, it couldn't possibly be him, right? He had lost weight, his collar and rib bones stood out almost hauntingly; the lankiness was highlighted by the nasty-looking bruises on his left shoulder, where Gladio had accidentally slapped him a little too roughly yesterday. It hadn't hurt, he just… bruised so easily nowadays. It hardly took more than a fillip. And Gladio packed significantly more punch than a fillip.

He let his eyes roam over the apparition he was seeing, studying the details and comparing them to what he knew. Or had known, at least. His skin had lightened, it looked almost ashen; there were dark shadows under his eyes. And what struck him the most was the disturbing look of his hair – or the lack of it. Only a few sad patches had remained, and Prompto had shaved off the last of it himself, the scratched and irritated-looking scalp now sporting a couple of spots that looked like welts. This wasn't Prompto. This was something else, something foreign. It made him sick to his stomach to look at it.

However, it wasn't the sad sight he reluctantly accepted as his own that made him collapse against the toilet and heave until he tasted the all too familiar acid. It was words. Again and always, words. Words that rang and bounced and wreaked havoc in his head.

The doctors were saying he wasn't responding to the treatment as well as they had hoped.

That after ten and a half weeks, his blood was still getting congested with malignant cells.

It was unknown if he would see his 20thbirthday.

They gave him three to six months.

"Hey, Prom! How's it…" Noctis' voice faded as the absence of his friend dawned to him. "...going."

Next to him, Ignis glanced at his protégé, something about his tone piquing his curiosity. Noctis had stepped into the room, peeking around in case Prompto was just in the bathroom or something. "A scheduled treatment, perhaps?" Ignis offered, pushing his glasses up a little.

"He wasn't supposed to have any today."

"An unscheduled one then." The way Noctis looked at him told Ignis the prince wasn't convinced, either.

"Excuse me, miss?" Gladio made a move to get the attention of a passing nurse, who looked a little taken-aback, startled by his sudden question, or just the intimidating size and look of the shield. Nevertheless, she flashed him a smile.

"Yes?"

"Uhm, where is he?" he motioned towards the vacant room. The nurse's eyes flicked towards the number above the door, and she blinked, looking confused.

"Argentum? I, uh, wouldn't know. He shouldn't be in the middle of a session, at least. You mean he's not in his room?"

In the meanwhile, Noctis had strolled further in. Prompto's stuff was still scattered all over the place, so at least he hadn't been discharged. But where was he?

Then something caught his eye that made his heart skip a beat. "Guys…" The tone had been enough. Drenched with apprehension, Noctis' eyes were glued onto a spot on the floor. The others were by him in an instant, the nurse with the men, the odd look His Highness was presenting having raised her curiosity.

On the floor, accompanied by fresh blood splatters reflecting the arc in which Prompto had torn it off, laid the stained cannula.

"Shit!" the nurse cursed under her breath, and with hasty half-running steps, she flew across the room and pressed some buttons on the intercom. "Security? We have a situation in 907."

"Prompto…!"

Three months.

"So, what's the point?!"

Ignis' eyes widened at the understanding brought by the other's tone: desperate and given-up, his hope lost. Nevertheless, he somehow kept his voice steady as he spoke, kept trying to persuade, "You don't know that. No-one does. There is still time for the treatment to take an effect. That–"

"Yeah, well maybe I don't want it to take an effect!" Prompto spat at him, snarling, another streak of water skidding down his cheek. "That shit hurts, Iggy! It fucking hurts! And for what?" He held a small pause. "For three more months of this shit? You think it's worth it?!"

Ignis looked like he considered his words carefully. "For the survival, Prompto. For the life you have yet to live. Isn't it your honorable duty as a Kingsglaive Cadet to always strive to better yourself?! How is this any different?" The adviser had inched closer almost unnoticed. He was not three yards from him. Prompto seemed to notice this, too, for the young man took a staggering step back down the three-feet wide ledge.

"Stop it…" he half-whispered around a strangled breath.

"You don't want to do this, Prompto. You know it, and I know it. Please, just come down from there. There is still time, but only if you won't rob yourself of the chance to live through this. Please. Do it for yourself. For your future."

The words left the other panting lightly between the quiet gasps that had risen from his throat. Frozen on the spot, Prompto neither refused nor obeyed Ignis' pleas. He had squeezed his eyes shut in a sad attempt to block it all – the agony, the fear, the desperation, the urges to find the will to carry on with it – but it was already too late. Ignis had gotten under his skin, and whatever had given him the courage before, it was waning. His teeth chattered, shoulders trembled under the surge of emotions, ripping him of his adrenaline rush, leaving behind only exhaustion and fear. He just wanted to rest. Just rest…

"Is that truly the way you want us to remember you? A red stain on the pavement? Is that what you want our last memory of you to be like?!"

Prompto visibly flinched at the words. A low blow, and so very calculated. "Tha- that's not fair...! I…"

"No, what you are doing is not fair! It's not fair for yourself, to deny yourself the chance," Ignis spoke sternly, but careful not to sound accusing. "Please. Just come down from there. We can work this out." Ignis had inched close enough that when he extended his hand, he was almost touching him. All Prompto would have to do was to grab it. Ignis didn't move an inch further in fear of scaring him into doing something stupid, but he never allowed his arm to even shake as he held it out for him.

Prompto's pants were rapid and shallow as his fuzzy eyes flicked on and off the offered hand. His teeth grit as his gaze shifted downwards, to the edge a little more than a foot's distance from his right foot, and his heartbeats grew more fluttery with the fear. The adrenaline no longer giving him the courage, he felt like he was choking on the thought of what was happening. The arms snaked around his middle, a frightened hug intended to keep him from coming undone as his eyes darted between the hand and the emptiness, small whimpers mixing with the shaky breaths into wet sounds of utter panic.

"Please, Prompto?"

His lip quivered, an instinct sinking his teeth into it to stop it from shaking. He panted, staring at nothing in front of him, his arms tightening around himself as he whispered brokenly, "Alright." The first motion was jerky, like Prompto tried to extend his arm but the limb was stuck. With effort he reached a trembling hand to grab a hold of Ignis'. "Alright."

Ignis' voice was pure disclosed relief. "That's it. Just, slow and steady now. There you go…" he rambled on as he slowly, gently guided Prompto to step down from the ledge, onto more stable footing. His lead legs carried him for three shaky steps before he collapsed.

Crumbling down with the overload of emotions, Prompto buried himself into Ignis' chest. Mindless, instinctive yearning for some comfort as his sighs grew into sobs, the sobs into weeping, his sorrow pouring out of him in waves of despair. Ignis allowed him to, gently guiding them to sit on their knees in a heap as the other's fingers tightened into his shirt. Sliding a hand down his back, he whispered soothing words, comforting words. Words of a future different from this one. Eventually Prompto's sounds grew less desolate, quieter as his shocked panic slowly stilled into panging, stabbing, tearing ache that was hope.

Ignis hardly made a move until the young man in his arms had calmed down enough for his breathing to even out into light pants. Only then did he reach to pull out his phone and, not forcing the other to move if he didn't want to, went to tap a quick text to Gladio.

'I found him. You two had best to come to the roof.'

As Noctis and Gladio rushed through the maintenance door, they were frozen on the spot at the sight of Ignis kneeling close to the edge, holding in his arms a shivering, barely conscious Prompto.

He swallowed thickly at the feeling of the needle piercing through his skin; it wasn't quite enough to suppress a small twitch of his arm. The nurse gave him a warning look, although her tone remained supportive and kind, "And that was the sting. Now just hold still for me." She hummed softly to herself as she let the droplets flow into the tube. Prompto gulped again and averted his eyes; despite the regularity of this, he always had a hard time stomaching the thought of his blood running out of his body, even if it was for the small container only. "That's it, pumpkin. Just take deep breaths, is all."

"S-sure. Uhm, could I have a glass of water, maybe?"

"Of course." The lady dropped a few more droplets and closed the cap of the last sample. She pulled the needle out, gesturing for Prompto to press the cotton pad against the puncture, and got up to get the boy some water. Prompto took it with a grateful smile flashing over his features.

"Thanks." He downed it on one go.

"Don't mention it. Cookie?" she gave her a warm look as he offered him a jar of treats.

"Please."

"It's good to eat after that, dear. It often makes you a bit woozy."

"Y-yeah," Prompto nodded a bit awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Need anything else?"

"Nah. I think I'm good. I'm ready to crash, though," he grinned a little.

"Off you go then. We should have your results in a couple of days."

"Alright, thanks." He got up and pulled his sleeve back down, and waved his hand for a goodbye, but he was halted by,

"And Prompto?"

"Yes?"

"Do take care of yourself." The blue eyes widened a fraction, a look of amazement washing over his face. Then, his chafed lips cracked a small smile.

"Thanks, Mrs. L. I will."

He left the hospital, not quite running but with hasty steps nevertheless. No matter how many times he came back for this, or any of his consolidation sessions, he was always equally eager to leave. He couldn't quite understand; he would have thought he'd gotten over it by now.

Prompto's phone went off, and he pulled it out to read the text from Gladio. The shield was asking if he wanted anything in particular to be brought over for his 20th birthday party tomorrow. A bit of a cunning smile rose to his lips; typing a quick reply he stuffed it back into his pocket. Prompto stole a little glance around as he continued down the street, until he abruptly turned a corner into a smaller alleyway between high-rise apartment block buildings. Again making sure that no passers-by were taking too much notice of him, he crouched down to shuffle through the contents of his backpack. Out he pulled a folded piece of paper.

A small frown descended over his features as he read the words from three months prior. Then, his mouth was set into a thin, determined line as he retrieved a lighter from his pocket, and flicked the flame out. The edge caught fire almost eagerly, and satisfied with the burning, Prompto dropped the piece like it was something disgusting. Standing up and flinging the backpack over his shoulder, Prompto watched in silence how the words burned, his face a cross of revolt and perseverance.

'I can't take it anymore. This isn't worth it. I'm sorry it had to be this way. Goodbye.'

With a snort, he turned his back to the charring paper, and walked out of the alleyway.