It’s fall, Prompto’s outside, and it’s almost hilarious when he gets into a sneezing fit. You watch from the porch with a faint snicker.

He’s been taking pictures of leaves falling from their tree—most of them coming out perfectly, thanks to the camera he constantly keeps hung around his neck—but he’s suddenly sneezing like someone puffed pepper under his nose.

Prompto’s never had bad allergies. Or, to his knowledge, allergies at all. The only thing close to allergies was a sore throat after eating Ignis’ cooking when it was scorching hot. Yes, he’s the average pale boy with freckled cheeks—why wouldn’t he have allergies? But why now, specifically? And allergies are usually triggered when it’s spring.

“Ugh,” Prompto groans, letting out a cough—or, rather, numerous of them—with an arm slung over your neck as you help him inside your shared home. “I dunno why I felt so sick out of nowhere… Like, who knows, maybe a ghost was waving a feather under my nose!”

He sounds a bit serious about the assumption, almost scared, but laughs immediately after speaking. Stupid, lovable sick boy. He eventually listens as you say it’s likely allergies, and he protests, saying a doctor never told him about any allergies. The last time he went to the doctor was for a fractured ankle two years ago.

You lead him into the house and onto the living room couch, putting a palm to his burning hot forehead and almost immediately scurrying off to get two or three pills of Benadryl and cough medicine. You come back to him wrapped in a blanket, nuzzling his flushed, freckled cheeks into the fabric.

Another sneeze. Great, now you can’t share the blanket, because his germs are on it, and you don’t know if he has a cold or if they’re allergies. Perhaps both. Unless you don’t care about that.