Fics like it's a wonder that you still know how to breathe

Ignis pulls a whistling kettle off of the stove. Noctis twitches at his side, a threadbare sock tickling his thigh under a heavy knit blanket. Gladio must be nearby, too; Prompto can hear the deep rumble of his voice, sending a shiver down his spine unbidden. Maybe there’s no one here at all. He’s lying still enough to be dead, he thinks. At least he can hardly feel the cold anymore. Prompto can take care of himself. He's mastered the art of it in the years he's spent on his own, carefully weaving a delicate veil of explanations for the prince and his entourage. He can juggle his classes, his work, and the endless piles of bills in the entryway. He can get by on the meager scraps left for groceries when rent is due. At least until a frozen pipe and an ever observant advisor make it impossible to keep up the farce.

Fics like it's a wonder that you still know how to breathe

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