By the time the rain stops, Prompto still hasn't fallen asleep.

It's almost morning, he thinks, from the gray light he can just barely see from the flap in the tent. Even the daemons are quiet, chased away by the rain and the oncoming morning. Prompto revels in the silence for a minute.

Noctis mumbles something unintelligible and rolls over. Gladio's snores hitch before continuing. Ignis sighs in his sleep.

He thinks with dread about how tired he's going to be today when they start their morning. He'll probably trip and drop something when he helps with breakfast, and later when they start their hunts he'll miss all his shots and probably get hurt and make them waste even more potions.

Ignis will probably give him that look, too, the one that's somewhere between disappointment and anger, and Noctis will ask what's up with him today and he'll have to just play it off like every other day, and Gladio suggest increasing their already overwhelming training, and Prompto will have to go to bed alone like every other night, trying to ignore the quiet murmurs behind him.

Or, his brain suggests, or perhaps when he falls in battle they'll just leave him. They'll finally realize that he's too much of a liability, that the potions he wastes aren't repaid in anyway and that they'd be better off without him. They'll leave him behind to fend for himself and he'll be all alone again.

He doesn't know when he started crying, but he can feel the tears running down his face, wet and gross and pooling against the sides of his face. He reaches a hand up and wipes at them uselessly. Bites his lip and tries to even out his breathing, tries not to let it get worse.

But he's never been good at holding back, and as soon as the first sob breaks through it's like an opened dam. He lays there and shakes as it washes over him, curls in on his side, tries not to make too much noise. He's already a burden on them, he doesn't want to disrupt their sleep as well.

His eyes burn as he clenches them shut, hands curled so tightly together he's sure he'll have marks from where the nails press into his palm. He feels like he's suffocating, drowning, the air is too thick and too wet and he's choking on it-

"Prom?"

Prompto freezes. Fabric rustles as someone moves around, and he tries to hold his breath, tries to be quiet so they can go back to sleep. But a hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and the touch is so much gentler than he expected, and another sob comes out.

"Shit, Prom, what's wrong?"

Gladio's voice is raspy but alert, and he's so warm that even though they're not touching Prompto can feel the warmth at his back. He clears his throat and wishes it didn't hurt.

"It's-" His voice sounds wet, so he clears his throat again. "It's nothing. Go back to sleep."

"Like hell it's nothing." Gladio says, and it sounds more like a growl. Prompto flinches a little, tries to curl into himself more without making it apparent. He's sure Gladio's mad at him, sure he's going to tell him to man up and stop crying, say that he's got nothing to be upset over.

"You should have woke me up if you were upset," Gladio says instead, and his voice is soft now. "What's wrong, kid? You can talk to me." The hand on his shoulder moves to his head, fingers running through his hair; he feels more tears run down his face.

"R-really, it's- it's nothing important." He sniffles. "I didn't mean to wake you up, I'm sorry-"

"Prompto."

"I really am sorry, I- I-" He swallows. "I'll go outside until I can be quiet-" He doesn't move to get up, however, and Gladio just settles down behind him, pressing his chest to Prompto's back and throwing an arm around his waist.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want," Gladio says, smoothing his hair back. "But I'm here, alright? I've got tons of practice listening to His Highness over there, so don't worry."

Prompto nods weakly, and against his wishes more tears begin to flow. Gladio holds him though it and wipes his tears, not saying a word.

Eventually, the floods ebb and all that's left are a few dying sobs. Prompto's exhausted, and it's probably already close to time to wake up, but he can't bring himself to care as sleep grasps onto the edges of his consciousness and pulls him down.

When he wakes up, the tent is empty.

He panics for a moment – shoots up right, looks frantically around. But he can hear them talking outside, voices muffled but there, and he heaves a sigh of relief and flops back down.

Then, he remembers last night. Remembers his tears and Gladio's warm voice, remembers drifting off to sleep.

He wonders, for a moment, whether they're discussing what to do with him. Whether he's worth all the mistakes he makes, whether he's worth the money and time and patience he wastes.

But he remembers how gentle Gladio's fingers felt in his hair, how softly he brushed it away from his face. He didn't have to do that.

And he thinks of the years of Noctis' friendship behind him, thinks of all the times he could have been left behind but he wasn't, and tries to believe that Noctis, at the very least, wants him here.

He takes a deep breath, and sits up.

They're still talking outside; he can hear their voices, though the words are mostly unintelligible. He hears his name – once, he thinks, maybe again – and it makes his chest tighten with worry.

He gets up.

Deep breaths – in and out. Now, smile.

He walks out of the tent.

Ignis is standing by the stove, stirring something that Prompto can just barely smell. Noctis is slouched in a chair nearby, chin in his palm. Gladio leans against the table. All three sets of eyes turn to him as he exits the tent, but he's long since learned how to keep up his face.

"Morning, guys!" He says, feigning a yawn.

"Morning, Prom," Noctis returns.

"How're you doing today?" Gladio asks him, and his eyes hold just a little too much worry, with the curve of his brow and the slant of his mouth. It makes his heart hurt.

"Just peachy," He says, instead of any number of things. He plops himself in a chair besides Noctis and crosses his legs.

Ignis and Gladio share a look. Gladio whispers something Prompto can't hear, and then Ignis is turning to him, eyes like pale sea glass.

"Prompto," Ignis says, and his voice isn't the blade he expected – it's measured and careful but so comforting, so soft. "We – Noctis, Gladio, and I – would like to have a talk with you about something."

And just like that, the comfort falls away. His stomach drops.

Were they really going to kick him out? They weren't, were they? He had a couple gil in his pocket – he could make it to a shop, beg for work, save up enough to-

"Please don't worry," Ignis adds quickly. "It is not something entirely unpleasant, I hope. We were thinking of speaking after breakfast."

It takes Prompto a moment to realize he should confirm. "Yeah, that works! After breakfast!" No matter the awkward laugh he gives out, the tension inside him piles up faster than he can dispel it.

It's the longest breakfast Prompto's ever had.

Ignis made eggs with daggerquill and wild green onion. Noctis picks out the onion, but both he and Gladio send Ignis their praises. If Prompto could taste anything other than ash he would probably praise him, too. He can barely finish the first plate he's given, and he panics when Ignis offers him seconds, but he survives. He survives.

They sit down together around the fire, and with nothing between him and them but the low, flickering flames Prompto feels incredibly exposed. Vulnerable. He wonders whether he can hold off the tears until after they actually kick him out.

Ignis sips a can of ebony. Gladio taps his fingers idly against the arm of his chair. Noctis is uncharacteristically still, staring at Prompto with bright, unwavering eyes. He's torn between staring back – committing Noctis to memory, his wild hair and smooth skin and the way his lips curve into a smile – but he doesn't. He stares at the ground, leg bouncing and fingers playing with the hem of his shirt, until Ignis clears his throat.

"Prompto," He starts, and Prompto's heart jumps up into this throat. "We three have been talking recently, and we have decided-"

"It's okay." Prompto interrupts. He doesn't want to hear Ignis say it, for some reason, doesn't want to have to hear the words from someone else's mouth, not when he knows it so well himself. "I – I get it." Ignis frowns, but Prompto cuts him off before he can say anything else. "I really do. I mean, what am I really good for? I can't fight well, and I – I waste potions, and – and food, and you'd be exactly the same without me." He sniffles a little, and damn him, he's going to start crying. "Be better off, even. More money for food. Less worrying."

"Prompto-" Noctis tries, but Prompto continues.

"I – I know I don't contribute. I can't – I can't do anything for you guys. I know. I'm sorry." And then the tears really do start. Fat drops slide down his cheeks as if he hadn't cried his heart out just last night. He doesn't try to wipe them away; his hands hold a tight grip on his pants. "I'm so – so sorry."

There's movement, someone coming toward him, and he flinches. He expects to be hit, or kicked, or something painful, some kind of punishment for the hardship he's put them through-

But it never comes.

Instead, Noctis wraps his arms around Prompto's shoulders, gentle, careful, and he presses his face into Prompto's neck and holds him close.

"Oh, Prom…" He murmurs, and it's over – Prompto scrabbles against Noctis' back, trying to find purchase, and the sobs well up in his throat and choke him one by one. He hides his face in Noctis' shoulder, and for once, he doesn't care about the mess he's making on Noctis' shirt, or how his pants will be dirty after kneeling in the dirt. He just let's himself melt into Noctis's arms.

A hand settles on his back and rubs soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Another comes to rest in his hair, smoothing it out.

Prompto's overwhelmed – anxious and scared and angry and happy all at once; a mixture of every emotion he's felt and all he will feel, an overloading of circuits within him as they all pour out at once.

But Noctis doesn't pull away, and neither does the pressure on his back or on his head, and so he doesn't worry.

He just lets it out.

Noctis explains to him later, once he's calmed down and had some water and a protein bar, what they had wanted to talk about.

"You-" Prompto really can't believe his ears. "Wait, say it again?"

Noctis is starting to go a little red, but he opens his mouth and explains anyways.

"We want you to join us," He says, voice soft and slow. They're in the tent, now, just the two of them as Gladio and Ignis talk outside; one of Noctis' knees bumps into his, and their toes are almost touching, and Prompto wants nothing more than to be back in his warm hold. "Join our relationship."

"You – do?"

"Of course we do," Noctis huffs. He reaches over to grab Prompto's hand – but hesitates. He holds his hand out, palm up instead. "Of course we do." He repeats. "We love you, Prom. I love you."

"And – and you're sure about this?"

Noctis nods. "We talked a lot about it before we decided to ask. We wanted to make sure, but we are." He smiles at him, holds his hand out a little further. "So?"

Prompto hesitates. "All of you?"

"We all want you. Promise."

Prompto takes his hand.

Things are... good. Great. Wonderful. Amazing. Whatever word you want to use.

They're still at war. Insomnia is still destroyed. They still fight for their lives every goddamn day.

But things are better.

Prompto sleeps, first of all. Actually sleeps, with dreams and sleep talking and waking up feeling almost fully rested. He sleeps with Gladio on one side and Noctis on the other, one hand curled into Ignis', and it's good.

He wakes with them, too – shirt covered with Noctis' drool, back sweaty from Gladio's perpetual heat, and there's a hand tangled in his hair and the blanket's lopsided and there's too many people for him to get up and pee without someone waking up –

And it's good.

Prompto lives for it – the casual touches as they walk by, the quick pecks, the slow kisses. The fact that all he has to say is he needs a hug and suddenly he has three pairs of wonderful arms around him.

It doesn't stop his anxiety, of course – doesn't stop him from wanting to cry from frustration when another battle comes and goes and he barely did anything; doesn't stop him from waking up shaking from nightmares he can't control; doesn't stop him from worrying that he's not good enough, that they'll get bored of him, that they've already got each other, they really don't need him –

But it's better.

Ignis helps boost his confidence, helps him train his aiming and teaches him how to get the most out of each shot. It's better.

Gladio comforts him after nightmares, lulls him to sleep in the safe cradle of his arms. It's better.

Noctis reminds him again and again how important he is, how much he's loved and needed, how they would never just leave him. It's better.

It's so much better.