It's somehow easier to talk about prepping their dinner than the real meat of the problem - oh, he doesn't know, the whole thing(?) that he thought was between them, only it wasn't. If there ever had been a Thing, he tells himself it fizzled away once they got into that fight and Gladio was gone only hours later. Easier said than done. Every time he sneaks glances at Gladio, at the fresh scars, the hair that he's officially gone screw it and let it grow wild, he still feels a pang clenching tight in his chest. Maybe it's regret. Maybe it's stronger than that.

Okay, so not thinking about all that. Eyes on the prize, Prompto. Prize, in this case, being a cooked meal with meat that isn't out of a can for a change and bonus, he didn't have to hunt it down himself.

Prompto takes the oil and parks himself by the fire. It's such a small bottle that he figures the unspoken rule is don't go crazy with it. He's conservative with how much he puts into the pan, tilting it this way and that so he gets as easy a coat as he can manage.

"Think this is good?" Prompto meant for it to be all matter-of-fact, but it pops out a question instead, like the old days where he was always looking for the others for advice. For help. A little embarrassed he's still acting like a kid, Prompto clears his throat and squares his shoulders, resisting the urge to hunch forward.