[Prompto's eager to take advantage of the unexpected show of fondness and grab on, rubbing his nose deep into Ignis's shirt, filling his lungs big and then breathing out again.]

I've got an idea, maybe.

[Because it's got to be kin to the relief, to the pride Prompto felt when Ignis, smelling of swamp and sweat and flame, finally stood up to Gladio. When the three of them came to save him, just like he knew they would. When they were all right again. A unit.

He might be overplaying--he still feels half-sick with worry and guilt--but the strength with which Prompto clings to Ignis is as real as anything in the world.]

But you're right. Probably I can't even dream of it. You guys always blow away my wildest expectations, even after all these years.