Who'd been dead set on keeping Prompto from getting distracted during combat, after he got hurt one time too many? Noct. Who'd suggested the consequences? Noct. Who'd been dumb enough to think it was sexy instead of really, really stupid? Prompto.

Prompto's never really alone anymore, and mostly, he's just fine with that. Mostly, it's exactly what he's always wanted. Only, his friends happen to be stupidly attractive. Like really, ridiculously, unfairly attractive. Strangers on the street actively stare at Gladio without a shirt on. Ignis wears sock garters, smooths them up his slender calves every morning like it's no big deal. Noct somehow doesn't realize that when he wades into the water to pull a fish out, white t-shirt on, the cloth plasters right up against his skin, almost see-through. So yeah. Prompto likes that he's never really alone anymore. But he's also never really alone anymore, and the approximately hundred thousand awkward boners he gets every single day languish in his jeans, untended.

The order's not a hard one: stay still, and stay quiet. It's an order he's had before, more times than he can count. This time, he even has an end goal: two hundred pages. It seems doable. Two hundred pages isn't that long, right? Prompto's just got to hang in there until Gladio finishes his book.