Eos was a far-off dream these days.
Back then, Prompto would often get intense flashbacks to them, but he'd clam up faster than a giant oyster shell whenever his therapist would prompt him about it. (Hah, corny pun.)
No one in Earth believed in magic, anyway, and maybe that was a good thing, too - except, it meant no one could help him.
He gets back to editing raw shots from his laptop; it wouldn't do to keep the clients waiting, after all. Holding a 9-to-5 job was fun and all, but it certainly never held a candle to freelancing.
That had been his therapist's suggestion, as well. Subtly, of course - it wasn't what he was paid to do, after all.
'Señorita' comes on shuffle next. Prompto unconsciously licks at his chapped lips. One of the few times he dreamed of Insomnia, warm, calloused hands were wrapped around his waist, snaking up his back, caressing his hair, a baritone voice whispering–
It was one of his best dreams yet. The fact that it ended so abruptly like that was a sore disappointment.
"How curious," his therapist had remarked humorously. Prompto had to resist the urge to groan inwardly - one of the rare times he decided to open up, and it was about a wet dream. Just great.
"What do you think does it mean, Doc?" Prompto had ventured anyway, just to keep the conversation going. He'd merely received a raised eyebrow in return.
"I am a psychologist, Mr. Argentum, not a dreamseer," his therapist only chuckled in amusement, and that had been the end of it.
Admittedly, that hadn't been his best moment.
A different kind of heat pools in Prompto's gut at the thought. Would these dreams have gone away if he simply told the truth? Surely, one good dream like this isn't worth the rest of the nightmares he's had thus far. They've been coming to him less and less now; it was a good thing he stuck by his decision to not take medication for it.
He only wished he knew what to do with them without burdening the others. They're already living new, peaceful lives; it would be unfair of him to disturb them now.
It's unfair, too, a voice in his head whispers, that only you are suffering, don't you think?
It takes a while for him to realize his phone had already died. Prompto absentmindedly plugs it in, disappointed at the silence that now fills the room. He saves the last of his work before shutting down his laptop, but not before sparing a glance at the desktop wallpaper. Back then it had been a landscape that reminded him of Galdin Quay, but now it was a poorly-taken selfie of him and his therapist inside the clinic. It had taken much wrangling to get him to agree to a photo, but he'd only obliged to celebrate Prompto "finally dreaming something different."
He traces a hand across the other man's face on the screen, frameless glasses knocked askew by the roughhousing, no doubt. Yet those emerald eyes and gentle but knowing smile are just as he remembered from long-distant memories, so much so that it rends at his heart in more ways than one.
"You haven't changed at all, Iggy," Prompto muses, a wistful smile playing at his lips. "I wish I could tell you everything."