Work Text:
Prompto assumes he’s catching a cold after the second garula takedown. He’s already been hit twice by the scourge-infected beast, enough to take the breath out of him. The scrapes sting, and he’s fiercely glad for potions as they heal the wounds in seconds. The injuries though, the fighting - It winds him more than usual, putting a chill in his body that he can’t shake. Huffing, he trains his sights on the next beast, blindsiding it with Noct before ducking away to take a photo of the action. When he stands back up, he staggers dizzily for a second. It’s enough for Gladio to call for assistance. Noct has been gored rather significantly by a tusk in Prompto’s absence from the fight. Gasping for breath, Prompto sprints at his friend, crushing an elixir over the grievous wound. No longer bubbling blood from the wound, he firmly pats Noct on the back to get him to cough up any from his lungs. A tiny splatter of gore hits the ground, joining the rest, and Noct is back on his feet.
“Get with it, Prompto!” Gladio shouts, his blade cutting out a significant chunk of the garulessa’s lower abdomen.
The beast wails, and charges at the group. Prompto cuts it off mid-gallop with a starshell, and it rears back. It gives Ignis just enough time to slit its throat with a wickedly sharp dagger. Bleeding, it leans heavily to one side before finally taking a knee. It only takes a single warp strike after that to bring it fully down. Winded, Prompto drops next to the final kill.
Gladio rummages through the corpses, attacking the trophy-bearing items with fervor. He’s up to his elbows in blood before Prompto can look away, nauseous.
“Prompto, did you sustain any injuries? You’re rather pale.” Ignis says, sharply.
Prompto does a subtle check of his body. But there is nothing to report back, so he shakes his head. He coughs slightly, out of embarrassment, and turns to pick up the discarded weapons. His hands are shaking. Ignis proffers a water bottle out of the armiger, setting it against his ground with a short ‘thunk’.
“Drink. You look dehydrated.” Ignis mothers, but when Prompto looks up, he’s talking to Noctis.
Noctis is staring at him, though, through dark eyelashes. He looks woozy, on the edge of stasis for sure after that fight, and rests crouched against a rock. He opens the water with clumsy hands.
“No haven tonight,” Noct growls out.
Ignis purses his lips but says nothing. They all know well enough that the next caravan is too far to reach before nightfall, and they don’t yet have the gil to afford any hotels. Noctis is just being difficult.
When they do eventually make it to a haven, dropping their trophies to the side and tugging their equipment out of the Regalia, Prompto is desperate to rinse off. He waits, allowing the others to go first while he begins the setup. There’s a creek nearby, but it’s getting so dark that it’s a risk to do much else but wash the sweat and blood from his extremities in a mad dash for cleanliness. He’s winded when he makes it back up to the haven. Gladio trails behind, Ignis and Noct already having cleaned themselves. Noctis has even gone so far as to wash his hair, Ignis fussing over the wet strands in dismay.
“You’ll catch a chill,” Ignis frowns.
Prompto coughs, and Noctis shoots him a look. They both laugh. Prompto’s comedic timing, as usual, is impeccable. Even Ignis smirks, though he rolls his eyes and dumps the towel unceremoniously as he is capable of onto Noct’s head.
Dinner is a sorry affair, a brief stew with cuttings from the garula that would otherwise go to waste. The taste is gamey, and Prompto can’t stomach more than a few bites. It makes his nose run, and he sinks further back into his camping chair. Bowl forgotten on the ground, he crosses his arms and closes his eyes.
Prompto is woken by Gladio, warm hands ushering him towards the tent.
“Go knock out, Prompto. We can handle one night without our comedian.”
Prompto does.
X
Prompto’s first hint that something is seriously wrong is that even Noctis wakes up before him, blankets piled over his legs as a courtesy. It’s so sunny that it hurts his eyes, even through the canvas fabric of the tent. He rolls to his side, trying to get his bearings. His legs hurt the most, cramping uncomfortably, but so do his back and shoulders. Fatigue claws in him like a coeurl, and he very briefly considers dropping back into sleep. He shivers once, noting the uncomfortable sweat dripping down under the collar of his shirt. Shifting, he pulls the extra blanket all the way to his chin. He needs to think this through, but his head feels cloudy and so, so heavy. He shuts his eyes, drawn closed by thousand-pound weights. Maybe just a few minutes…
“Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty.” Gladio is in his face, prodding his sore chest.
Prompto barely reacts, just cracks open one eye.
“C’mon. Not often you get more beauty sleep than Prince Charmless.” Gladio says, pulling Prompto up to sit. “You alright?”
“Tired.” Prompto mutters, ignoring how cool Gladio’s hand feels against his upper arm. Gladio frowns, eyes the blankets, eyes Prompto.
He must think better about saying something when Prompto finally wakes up for real, beginning to fold up his bed with clumsy fingers.
“I’ll pack up the tent. Go get some food.” Gladio shoos him out, with a smirk. “If Noctis hasn’t eaten it all.”
“-I heard that!” Noct yells from outside.
Prompto winces and stands. His spine cracks with the movement, a testament to how hard he’d slept overnight. His shirt is soaked with sweat under his arms and in a long patch on his back. He’s long since gotten used to changing in front of the others, so he strips it off with little care, rummaging through his pack for something clean, and warm. He settles on a long sleeve, rarely worn and so still soft with their previous dregs of fabric softener, back when that was a necessity and not a luxury. It feels strange against his skin - too soft and too rough all at once - but it’s better than a sweaty t-shirt, so he sighs and slides his jeans over his boxers.
Breakfast is a light affair because hunts have been sparse. Usually, it’s something Prompto wouldn’t dare complain about, happy to avoid the extra calories. Today, however, Prompto feels a little floaty. Some toast, dry, doesn’t do much to help his appetite, so he only eats a few bites. Ignis eyes him, wary over his final can of Ebony.
“I know it isn’t substantial,” Ignis sniffs, “but it is all we can do until we go back to Galdin Quay and meet with our tipster. Best not be picky.”
It isn’t like Ignis to be offended so easily, but Prompto seems to always get on his nerves, just enough to grate Ignis’ goodwill down to small, thin shreds. He ignores Ignis, anyhow, sitting at Noct’s feet with an uncharacteristic sigh. He turns away from his plate, pressing his face into his best friend’s knees. The movement knocks his mug over, an ugly tin chocobo-themed monstrosity. Water spills over the haven ground in small rivulets. Prompto whines, a wobbling noise that sounds close to tears.
It’s so weird that Ignis stops his lecture on wasting resources in its tracks. Noctis has an alarmed look on his face, his phone long forgotten in his lap as Prompto sighs.
“Ok, Prom?” He questions, running blunt nails down Prompto’s scalp. To Ignis, Noct mouths “help”.
Prompto doesn’t answer, just presses his head into his friend a little further. Noctis can feel how warm his face is - it’s alarming. Ignis presses a cold water bottle to the back of Prompto’s neck, before kneeling beside him.
“Prompto, dear, are you quite well? You’re making us nervous.”
“S’ry.” Prompto slurs quietly, unhappily turning to squint at Ignis. “Migraine.”
It’s not quite the truth, but a migraine is something Ignis and the others can work with. It’s not the flu, not something that could be touch-and-go in the desert, not something requiring medicine that costs gil which they do not have.
“He’s a bit warm, Iggy.” Noct says, urgently. “Heat must be getting to him.”
“Well, we luckily do have access to a pretty cool ride, so once we have packed, you may find you feel a bit better, Prompto. Try and drink some water, you’re likely dehydrated.”
Noctis groans at the joke, coaxing Prompto onto his lap, instead. Prompto is usually embarrassed about how tactile their friendship was, especially in front of Gladio and Ignis, but he’s in too much pain to care. Shivery, he tucks his head against Noct’s neck where the sun is blocked out. He hums and lets himself sleep some more.
He wakes up in the Regalia, no longer crushing Noct but rather tucked against Gladio in the back seat. A chiseled arm is wrapped snugly against his shoulders, and Prompto dozes quietly in the silence. Gladio is reading some raunchy romance novel, ripped bodices and pirates gracing the cover. Prompto coughs, and then he suddenly can’t stop coughing. It takes him hacking up something gross and spitting it over the side of the car before he realizes that Noctis is looking at him from the front seat in concern.
“Um, you good?” He says, punching Prom’s shoulder gently.
“Yeah.” Prompto rasps. “Think I accidentally ate a bug.”
Laughter bursts out of both Gladio and Noctis before Ignis can interject with concern, but Prompto can see him looking in the rearview mirror.
“Extra protein,” Gladio says, slapping his back good-naturedly. He slips his arm back around Prompto as he leans back again, no longer too concerned. Humor is a great deflector, Prompto knows.
Ignis doesn’t stop looking back occasionally until they make it to Galdin Quay.
X
They still can’t afford to stay in the hotel, but the tipster eyes their trophies and the payout is good. Ignis replenishes their restorative stockpile and Noct gets some fishing in. Gladio goes to the massage bench below the restaurant, shelling out a few gil for a minute of relaxation.
Prompto…goes to the caravan. He knows it’s a waste to buy time now, instead of waiting for night to fall, but he’s so tired. He feels properly ill after the long ride, his sinuses stuffed up to the point of aching. He can’t even smell the sea, and the sun beating down on him does nothing to help his chills. Looking at himself in the small mirror of the bathroom, he’s flushed with fever. His friends probably think it’s sunburn, but it doesn’t have the crackling, tight feeling of one. He coughs, once, then washes his hands. He splashes cool water down the back of his neck, and his face. He wants to take a shower, but the idea of standing for any longer than necessary is brutal.
He slips against the couch - a shitty excuse for one - and rests his head on the table. He’s asleep before he can hear Ignis quietly entering.
When he wakes up, it’s because Noctis and Gladio are fighting with each other. Rather, they’re bickering. It’s the same funny arguments they have constantly just to blow off steam. Uniquely, the argument is about him , today. Prompto doesn’t catch much more than his name a few times before there’s a cold hand against his back. He shivers.
“Prompto, why didn’t you mention you were feverish?” Ignis says, carefully.
Prompto shrugs, leaning into the touch as Ignis presses gentle fingers to his lymph nodes, and then his cheekbones, swollen under his symptoms. Someone knuckles his forehead, probably Gladio. He wrenches his eyelids open again, unaware that he’d closed them. Lifting his head, he sighs deeply, and it catches on something in his chest. He coughs, and then he’s being manhandled into bed.
Ignis worries over him, but no more than Noct, who firmly slots himself beside Prompto in bed.
“You’ll catch this-” Prompto mutters.
“I don’t care.” Noct interrupts.
Ignis frowns, but places something cold on Prompto’s face, and then against his neck. It feels nice, and Prompto almost nods off again right there.
“I want to get a read on your fever, so please do not sleep yet if you can help it.” Ignis states, rummaging through his medical kit.
The thermometer doesn’t bring any good news. Prompto is mildly alarmed that he’s running a fever of 103, and so are the rest of his friends. Ignis, however, raises a good point. They’ve been outside in the sun all day, and Prompto is likely dehydrated. He never drank water after their earlier hunt, after all. Or ate much.
It’s about then that Prompto begins to cough, and can’t stop. He covers his mouth with his hand, gagging for a breath. Ignis soothingly presses a cold hand to his brow.
It’s yanked back when Prompto finally stops and throws up tar-like Scourge all over himself. All Prompto feels is the sudden loss of a warm body beside him and the urgent slam of the caravan door. The only sound in the room is his shuddering inhales.
He feels very alone.