He shouldn't have been riding so fast. He'd known that corner had loose gravel – that it would be so easy for a bike to lose control there. Why hadn't he slowed down? This only happened because he wasn't paying attention. This was his fault…
With eyes squeezed shut, as if that would drown out the pain, Prompto lay on his side. The hard, cold concrete beneath him was sapping the warmth from this body, and the world seemed to have gone silent save for the sound of his own ragged breathing and the pounding of his heart.
Internally, something whispered at him to move, to start assessing the damage done, but fear held him still. He didn't want to know how bad it was.
Overwhelming shockwaves of pain radiated from his right leg and left arm. He knew he had other injuries as well, but those pains were dulled by his more severe wounds.
He coaxed himself into opening his eyes, and was distressed to find his vision momentary clouded by adrenaline and agony. It passed, but the initial panic stayed with him.
Should he move? Could he move?
He vaguely remembered giving out a muffled yell as he fell. Maybe someone had heard him. Perhaps they would come to help. He hoped so, but the minutes slipped by and the chill of the morning forced Prompto to try to move.
He slowly pushed himself up, taking care not to put any pressure on his left arm. Sharp, excruciating bouts of pain flared through his body as he maneuvered himself into a sitting position.
His right leg was slightly tangled in the bike frame.
Prompto was relieved to find no bone extruding from the limb. There may have been breaks–okay, he was sure there were broken bones, but nothing had lacerated through the skin, so he didn't have to see the ugliness of it. He really didn't think he could handle that at the moment.
The process of freeing himself from the mangled bike was slow. He had to stop frequently to allow himself a moment to breath, to let the throbbing pain subside slightly.
Eventually he was free, his mind scrambling to decide what action to take next. He glanced around, finding a newspaper lying nearby along with one of the Chocobo wings from his helmet and his cellphone.
He picked up the paper first, although he wasn't sure why that seemed like a priority. Mechanically, he placed it in the satchel still hanging across his shoulder, and when he realized what he'd done, Prompto gave a soft chuckle. Maybe it was stupid to laugh while he lay on the ground injured, but he just couldn't help but see the ridiculousness in a paperboy instinctively reaching first for his papers.
Next he retrieved his phone, and was dismayed to find the screen shattered. It was lit up but frozen beneath a spider web of cracks on the lock screen. Prompto tried turning the device off, but it wouldn't respond. If he wasn't starting to tremble so badly, he might have tried pulling the battery out and putting it back in.
I can't afford to fix this…
That thought struck him suddenly. Then he realized that he wouldn't be able to afford the hospital bill that was sure to come either, and, after a fall like this, he'd probably have to take it easy for a while. He wouldn't be able to continuing working, and that meant no income to pay the bills.
He tried to swallow down the lump of despair growing in his throat, but it did no good. A sense of helplessness and defeat was engulfing him, and he gave in, feeling warm tears trickle down his cheeks. He couldn't do this. He couldn't fix any of this.
And I'll have to miss Darkhouse as well…
For a couple minutes, he sat, quietly crying, taking in little shivers of breath between sobs.
Get it together, Prompto. You're stronger than this…
With the back of his right wrist, he wiped his eyes and choked back any further tears. He may have been able to halt his crying, but his misery remained.
All the excitement and anticipation he'd manage to build up over the last couple of weeks for the Darkhouse Comic Expo was now a stone weighing heavily in his chest. The disappointment only grew as he realized that he may have ruined more than just his day. He'd probably ruined Noct, Ignis and Gladio's day as well.
The guys could still go to the expo. He wanted them to go, but would they?
He toyed with his phone again, trying desperately to send a message to Noct. Maybe he could tell the guys he'd gotten sick or something? He would tell them to go without him. They might be okay with that–as long as he didn't make it sound like he was dying or anything.
But, the phone refused to cooperate.
Prompto shrugged, pocketed his phone and glanced up and down the sleepy street one more time, hoping to see an early morning jogger or someone out retrieving their paper. There was no one.
Uncertain of what to do next, he tentatively surveyed his injuries further.
His right leg was throbbing, the pain radiating from the lower part of the limb–near his ankle. His pants were torn at both knees and the edges of the frayed fabric were slick with blood. He shifted a little, wincing with the movement, but he was able to see the wet, red wounds on each knee. Those injuries, though ugly, were minor. It was a little road rash–just the concrete and gravel giving him a little, painful kiss as he had tumbled along during his fall.
He kept exploring himself for wounds, finding a small bleeding patch of skin on his right elbow and a larger one extending from his left elbow to his wrist on his left arm.
Experimentally, he tried to move his fingers on his left hand, but pain instantly flared through his arm. He couldn't tell for sure what was broken, but there was certainly something wrong with the limb.
What do I do now?
Uncertainty hounded him. He could start yelling for help. Surely someone in the neighborhood would hear him. Or, he could limp over to one of the houses and knock on the door. The occupant would either help him or let him use their phone.
There was one more option – one that he knew he shouldn't choose, but it was what he felt drawn to do.
His house was only three blocks away. If he used his bike as a crutch, he was pretty sure he could make the trek.
It was probably a bad idea to move. He knew he should stay put, and yet…
Prompto set to work slowly getting his shaky self to his feet…well, foot. Placing any weight on his right leg was obviously not going to work. Sharp gasps escaped him as he moved, but he held his urge to yelp in pain at bay. There was no need in waking up the neighborhood. He could manage this on his own.
Once he was up, wobbling unsteadily on his left leg, he carefully bent over and set his bike upright. Cradling his left arm to his chest, he used his right to lean heavily on the bike. Then, he started limping along, surprised at how well the process was working. It was a little tricky steering the bike while leaning so heavily against it, but Prompto managed.
When he'd made it about a half a block, he glanced back, seeing a lone spot of blood and one tiny, plastic Chocobo wing were he'd fallen.
Well, that's going to be a confusing find for someone this morning.
He shrugged and turned back, starting to slowly move in the direction of his house once again.
Eagerly, he let his mind wander toward video games, school, the arcade…anything that wasn't the current pain he was in.
Blinking, Prompto suddenly realized that he'd stopped – that the bike was gently leaning against his side and his free right hand had snaking into his satchel…searching. He pulled out a newspaper and stared at it a moment.
What…am I doing?
He looked up, suddenly understanding. It was one of his delivery houses. Prompto tossed the paper toward the property, letting out a low hiss of pain with the movement.
"I guess the other two are on my way as well…" He said to himself. "Might as well finish the job I started. This could be my last paycheck for a bit."
After giving himself a moment to rest, he continued on, pausing his progress only to gently toss the next two papers toward their intended houses.
By the time he'd reached his house, his body felt heavy, weighted by exhaustion, but he still, rather absentmindedly, put his bike and helmet back in the shed before hopping toward his front door.
Fumbling with his key, his right hand shook as he struggled. More than anything, he wanted to sit down and hide himself away from the world. He didn't want to deal with any of this. It was too much. He'd messed up too much.
Eventually, he was able to get the door open and make his way inside.
Nearly out of breath, he made his way to the sofa, and, for as much as he wanted to just plop down and shut his eyes, he knew that kind of forceful movement would only be rewarded with pain.
Cautiously, with great care, he eased himself into a sitting position on the couch and leaned back.
His sensible side advised him to retrieve the first aid kit and tend to his injuries, but the reality was that the kit was upstairs, and he wasn't convinced he could make the climb.
Prompto closed his eyes. Sleep was out of the question. Too much pain still flared through him, but it was nice to just sit, to have a moment to himself in the safety of his house.
A loud knock at the door had him jumping, eyes popping open, sharp breath coming as his body protested over his sudden movements.
"Prompto? Come on, kid. We're going to be late." Gladio's voice bellowed from outside. "Get a move on. Don't want to keep his royal crabbiness waiting. He's had a hard morning of having to be awake."
Prompto opened his mouth, but he couldn't decide how to respond. What should he tell Gladio? To go away–to go to Darkhouse without him? Or should he tell them he needed help? He wanted help. He did, but…
In the end, he chose silence as his answer.
Leaning back into the soft folds of the couch, he was prepared for the next round of knocks that sounded.
"Prompto, hurry up…" There was a tinge of exasperation in Gladio's voice.
After a sort span of silence, two more voices joined the Shield's, but the conversation they had was muffled, obviously not intended for him.
Prompto flinched as his pocket erupted into a chorus of distorted Chocobo 'kwehs,' and he scrambled to pull his phone out and silence it, but the darn thing was still frozen on the lock screen.
"I can hear your ringtone," Noct hollered. "I know you are in there. Stop messing around and come on."
His phone suddenly went silent.
"If you don't open up this door, I'll have to break it down," Gladio added, "on the Prince's orders, of course."
There was a soft click, and Prompto sank a little further into the couch as he heard the familiar creak of a hinge. It was then that he realized he'd forgot to lock the front door.
"Or," Ignis replied, his tone wry, his words clearly meant for Gladio. "We might just open the door and enter like rational people."
Prompt had sunk as far as he could into the couch. His back was to the doorway, and he knew all the guys could probably see of him were a few tuffs of blond hair.
Almost forgetting to breathe, he listened to their footsteps as they approached. His stomach clenched, as a wave of emotions flooded through him.
There was relief that he wouldn't have to keep facing everything alone. Once they saw him, he'd have to tell them everything.
Everything…
That brought fear and anxiety. He'd kept so much from them. None of them knew about the paper routes–not even Noct. Would they be angry? He'd basically lied to them by omission.
Then, when they found out why he needed to work, what would they think of his parents? His mom and dad were good people. Prompto knew he meant the world to them. They were just…too good. Out saving the world one farm and forest at a time, they sometimes forgot to take care of themselves and their son.
He hoped they were okay.
"What the…?" Gladio's voice was low, concerned, and Prompto was quick to look up at the man. The Shield was tense, fists clenched.
Noct stood back, eyes wide, fixed on his friend. It was Ignis who sprang forward, dropping to one knee, his attention darting across the visible wounds on Prompto.
"Who did this to you?" Gladio growled, already moving toward the kitchen, looking as if he truly needed to find someone to pummel.
So, the big guy wants to beat someone up for me, huh?
A vision of Gladio punching his bike flashed through Prompto's head, and he let out a sharp laugh. Apparently, judging by the alarmed stares the other three were giving him, that was not the response they'd expected.