[Summer's strength gives out, and when it does, the murky unease, the week's worth of unresolved, compacted hurt Prompto's been pushing through crick-cracks and shatters open, lets everything else burst through.]

It's okay. [Untrue, but he says it. He feels it.] I'm okay. It--I'm not fucked up now.

[What he is is complicated to feel and impossible to explain, a disorienting, sloshy mix of guilt, still, and relief, and anticipation and betrayal and something overwarm that's sunk claws in him--not yet painful, but deep and impossible to ignore.

What he is tugs him towards her, yanks him across the cobblestones.]

I'm coming, A. I'm bringing you home. If--

[No. None of that. Big breath, Quicksilver, you heard what she said, and here she is, breaking for you.]

--That's what you want, right? That's what you need. Come--come home now. It's safe. We'll figure it out, we're not--I won't leave you behind.