[He nods, taking a seat on the cot opposite Prompto, allowing them the proximity to speak while still maintaining a comfortable distance. Really, he appreciates the day before Prompto had immediately come to see him. Given him the space to think, to come to terms with where he was and the implications of it, to drive himself half-mad with the sheer desire to understand and the subsequent failure to do so.

It had been enough time for him to put on a facade of composure, to find a strategy to cope.

He sits casually, one leg hooking over the other, hands politely resting on his knees as Prompto speaks. And the words the younger man gives over are... wanting, really. Almost empty devoid of true meaning to Ignis. 'Not so bad'-- Implying that is was bad, perhaps? It's nicety that truly told nothing, really, and his expression is clear enough to give over how unimpressed he is by it.]

Hardly a stunning review. I'm sure you're coping as well as could be expected, though.

[And that's where, absently, that hand comes up to lightly touch at the scar at the beck of his head, the remnants of-- who knows what. A mystery thrust under his flesh, into his mind, one he doesn't have information to even begin comprehending.

But the offering of gloves is a good distraction, and he pauses momentarily, looking at them. He had, unfortunately, discovered the effects of contact with another of the transient arrivals here- and so he takes them carefully, ensuring his fingers stay clear of Prompto's during the handover.]

...Thank you. I appreciate the thought. [They're bulky and leathery and have hints of grease and grime on them, and yet he still takes them carefully, slipping them onto his hand. And they look absolutely ridiculous, large and cumbersome on his hands, clashing atrociously with the old clothing he'd been given upon settling in- and yet he's thankfully nonetheless.]

What have you been doing with yourself here?