[ It's a lie to even consider that he doesn't enjoy the sound, at least a little, when Prompto finally crests that hill. Or maybe more of a mountain, for the way his whole body slumps at the end of it, enough that Gladio feels the instinctive need to immediately put both arms around him, to hold him up and in place in his lap. While only one of them pants—and maybe rightly so, given all that Gladio knows about what that feeling is like—there's still a sheen of sweat over his own skin too, a bead of it forming at his temple to trickle down. It's impossibly hot in this changing room now, between the sun and the closeness and effort in just getting Prompto back to clarity. It's a lie, too, to claim that he doesn't feel some lingering shame in it all, even if he understands it was necessary, between the unadulterated effects on his own body, giving away some small amount of interest and enjoyment despite anything his mouth might say. ]

I'm fine.

[ He says it anyway, only managing a flicker of eye contact before he too looks away. At least the curtain for a door provides some measure of an excuse to have his eyes elsewhere...as if training his gaze at their laps is any better. But he's gotten pretty good at ignoring that when it's necessary, even in situations where it's hardly been in his best interest to ignore it. Ironic, the things one unlearns in the right circumstances. ]

We all got a taste of that a few months ago, without having to eat anything. This place has some kinda switch for people, they flip whenever they feel like it, but it hits everyone a little differently. Depends on what mark you get. [ A pause, and surreptitious swallow, of more words, maybe, or just his nerves. ]

You feelin' better at least?