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To be honest, it’s not like he knows a whole lot about Noct.
Sure, most everyone knows the stuff the Citadel puts out there, he is sort of public property. Almost six feet, kind of twiggy – Prompto’s not a bulk of muscle himself, either, it’s just fact – likes to fish, only reads books when they come in glossy print and with illustrations, speaks really non-royalish - whenever he actually speaks. Prompto stops to think: sleeps a lot. Like, a lot. It’s not just once or twice someone’s sold a snap of Noct catching some downtime during Algebra to some or other online gossip mill. Said gossip sites, which hold bi-annual pollings on which sullen facial expression suits His Highness the best - slightly surly and closed off, or passé and brooding? It draws millions of votes, and always spawns long social media threads between members of Camp Surly and Camp Brooding.
He knows that Noct’s facial expressions are actually really multifaceted: he just doesn’t consider it his duty to perform for the people. Which, Prompto gets; his buddy’s not an actor for hire. He doesn’t have to cater to peoples’ whims and likes. He’s, by happenstance, the prince of a nation – totally big deal, but it’s not like he can help it. He’s about as unroyal as it gets, Prompto thinks. He’s just a regular dude. A regular – royal.
But most people know that. Everyone at school should know. They’re not blind. And they read The Insomnian Journal. And Twitter. And probably fan blogs. Unless they’re anti-monarchy, then they probably go on sub forums and spew anonymous hate. He knows Noct’s not unused to that, either.
He knows that the girls fawn over him, and that the guys - well, also fawn over him. Which, Prompto also gets. Five feet nine, kind of twiggy, but also lean with muscle. Hair bordering on perfectly tousled by some kind of anti gravitational freak occurrence. Pale, smooth. Cheekbones you could cut yourself on. That artful slouch you can’t imitate –it just comes naturally to those who know they’re Hot Shit. Not that Noct would ever really think that, or say that, but, it’s inimitable.
He looks at Noct across the cafeteria, slouched over a sheaf of paper, a plate pushed aside that’d once been full with something or the other. A few pens – those high shine, heavy black ones branded with the royal sigil on that costs more than that new portrait lens Prompto’s been eyeing – are strewn over the expanse of his table. The students are crowding the other tables around him, and while they don’t give him much visible attention, Prompto notices the odd glance and the occasional casual, high strung whisper here and there. He’s learned to.
He crosses the breadth of the room and pulls the chair opposite of Noct out and spins it, seating himself leaning over the back of it. He unceremoniously drops his portfolio next to the chair. “Heya buddy,” he greets enthusiastically.
Noct almost jumps at the noise. Prompto winces slightly. “Sorry?” he tries, “Really thought you’d notice me bumbling over here.”
Noct looks up. He swipes at his fringe, giving way for his brow and eyes. Prompto usually avoids staring, because – well, he doesn’t wanna make things awkward. It is hard to stare at Noct for too long a time. It’s not a thing, he’s reconciled himself with his fate. Don’t make it weird, is the only principle he abides by. And he doesn’t. Noct’s not really that fond of maintaining eye contact, either. Must come with the title. Don’t look too much at other people, don’t get noticed too much.
“I was – reading,” Noct says, enunciating the verb as though it physically pains him to talk about it.
“Studying?” Prompto asks, makes big, surprised eyes at him. Noct rolls his eyes, and reaches out to mock swing at him. “No,” he replies, “More nat sec report than Algebra prep, unfortunately. Ignis makes me read up on the meetings I miss due to – “ he waves a vague hand about, “Being here.”
Prompto leans forward again. “Nat sec?” he asks, and peers over what Noct’s reading. It’s written in neat script on thick paper, and fancy swirlings decorate the letterhead. The letterhead which is, incidentally, also branded with the royal sigil. “Wait, as in – national security? Can you even read that here? We’re – among people.” He hisses the last part, and darts a look around at the mill of students, completely unaware of classified documents being mentally digested by the royal heir next to the panoramic windows and the remaining crumbles of what was probably 60% sugar, 40% wheat and flour, on Noct’s discarded plate.
Noct peers amusedly at him. “Yeah,” he says, “Anybody who so much as looks at this, well, I’m going to have to execute them. You included.”
Prompto snorts. “Not funny this time either, dude,” he says.
Despite this, that’s another thing he actually does know: Noct’s got a viper dart sense of humor, that’s usually deadpan and genuinely funny. If he bothered with interacting with and talking to people, Prompto’s a hundred and ten percent sure his popularity would sky rocket pretty much into oblivion. ‘Cause – well, he’s got the looks, he’s got the title, the monetary care package, and the personality to boot. The real deal. 11/10.
“You say that like you’ve heard it before,” says Noct.
“And look who’s still kickin’ around,” replies Prompto. “Forreal though. Is it really fine to – ?”
Noct rolls his eyes. He pushes the stapled pages across the table, rights it until Prompto can read it. “Have at it, while you’re alive and all. There’s really nothing in it that you can’t read in the papers anyway. The Journal’ll have it on the front page tomorrow. It’ll probably drop online in a few hours.”
Prompto looks at him. “Will they?”
Noct hums. “That’s why I’m reading it now. So I won’t look like The Heir Who Doesn’t Care, when I’m asked to comment.”
Prompto snorts. “That your own invention, or a journo’s?”
“Once a hashtag,” Noct explains sagely, “It was actually kind of funny.”
“Bet it was hilarious.”
“The internet continually amazes me.”
Prompto doesn’t reply, in lieu of it choosing to scan the first page of the report down. “Woah,” he says, when it dawns on him what he’s actually reading, “Is this – I mean, it sounds like a big deal. How can they tax you for visiting a religious spot? Are people gonna start paying to go to church now too, or what? Won’t that cause an uproar?”
“A divine intervention would be suitable,” Noct replies, a touch wry. “Angelgard isn’t anybody’s on paper, really, but given that the waterways fall under Niff territory, there’s not much we can do about it. Would it be that we’d achieve some sort of armistice this is one of those things you’d send a diplomat for to broker a deal. But, with the way things are – we’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
“You sound like you know your stuff to me.”
“Ha, yeah, I sort of have to.”
“Well, if you were an heir who didn’t care, you really wouldn’t. Or, you wouldn’t care about it, anyway.”
Noct laughs. A short, soft sound that curls up happily in Prompto’s gut, warms him up. “That you’re right in,” he concedes. He leans sideways, tilting himself leftwards to pick his portfolio up from the floor. He fumbles with the clasp for a moment, before it unclicks and the lid falls open. He snags the report from beneath Prompto’s scrutiny, and stuffs it down the bag, along with his books and his royal fountain pens. “Anyway,” Noct says, once he’s wrestled the overstuffed portfolio shut again, “Gladio says you’re way too skinny to be hanging out with him in public. Said I should bring you to training some time. That is – if you’d want to, of course.”
Prompto’s managed to deduce that when Noct’s unsure of something, he scratches three fingers or so down the column of his throat – which, really shouldn’t be staring there, really bad idea – and looks away. Prompto can’t figure out why he’d be unsure of asking whether he wants to tag along to training, ‘cause –
“Dude,” Prompto exclaims, “Can I?”
Noct looks back to him. Something puzzled crosses his expression. “Yeah,” he says, “I mean, sure. I wasn’t – didn’t know you’d be interested? It’s – not exactly fun. More torturous.”
“Are you kidding? Of course I want to tag along! Count me in, buddy. I mean, you can always count me in - but for this in particular.”
“Uh huh, okay then. I’m warning you though; Gladio’s a sadist. He’s going to chew you up and spit you out more dead than alive. But I’m glad you’re going to be able to share my pain, from now on.”
“Bringing my A-game to the workout of my life, then,” Prompto replies, grinning, heart ticking on a beat quicker, something flopping around stupidly in his stomach.
*
Gladiolus, or, Gladio, as he insists on, grins, feral and sharp, and cocks a hand over his left hip. He’s in a dark tank, equally dark pants, and leans slightly sideways on a long wooden stick. “Here I thought you were gonna be too chicken to show,” he says.
Prompto startles. He’s still unsure of how to tackle Noct’s talkative bodyguard. Literally, no way, and figuratively, kind of difficult to know what to say and when to say it, he finds. He stutters out a chuckle, which he hopes doesn’t sound too nervous. “Err, well,” he grapples, “Noct asked me today and I figured, sure, you know. Nothing better than a good workout.”
Gladio’s laughter is booming, and, most of all, infectious. Prompto would like to join in, if he weren’t fearing for his life at the very moment. “That’s what I like to hear,” he says. He turns halfway to Noct, who’s splayed on the ground, stretching out his calves. “Not what I usually hear, though. His Highness here’s pretty fond of less working, more whining.”
Noct doesn’t look up from where he’s tipped forward, one leg folded beneath himself, one stretched out ahead of him. He sinks deeper into the position. “That’s ‘cause you’re such a bore to train with,” comes the slightly muffled reply.
Gladio snorts. “Bite me,” he says, though easily. He turns back to Prompto. “Now then,” he says. He cracks, in a manner befitting a movie character, his knuckles, though the entire process is far too vivid and real for Prompto to not gulp an extra breath at. “You ever practiced hand to hand combat before, kid?”
Prompto shakes his head. “It, uh, never came up. Incidentally.”
Gladio snorts. “Tch, yeah, imagine that.” He briefly glances over Prompto’s entire statue. “That’s about to change.”
Prompto is sure, halfway through the fifty minute session, that he’s going to keel over and die on the spot. And Gladio hasn’t even, explicitly, attempted anything on his life. It’s not that it’s pushing weights too heavy for him to handle, or anything like that. It’s a series of slow, achingly slow, movements to be performed in perfunctory succession, and it’s hard.
He goes into of a series of three stances, and feels like he’s going to flop down on the floor and puke from sheer exhaustion, all the while Gladio walks around him and pokes him in the spots he should correct – rectify and redo. Comments at his failing attempts: Pull your shoulders more into your stance; c’mon kiddo, don’t lose your arms, you look like a flailing octopus; please don’t tell me you’re actually lookin’ down at your feet to check they’re still steering you right when you’re crossing the street.
Prompto chances a glance in Noct’s direction – and realizes, amidst the swimming thoughts that go code red, pain, exertion, abort mission – that he’s never seen him do anything remotely resembling – well, exercise.
Noct is moving through series of movements not unlike what Gladio is forcing Prompto through, but holds a heavy-looking sword in a two hand grip, the flat of it facing upwards. His hair is slicked back from his face, a light sheen of sweat wet on his forehead and down the side of his neck. Had Prompto not already felt like he’s gone through a desert wasteland without water for three weeks, he imagines that his irrefutably stupid crush would’ve made him enter into a very similar state anyway.
“Alright, big guy, focus over here. He’s got it just as tough as you, don’t be fooled by the lack of expression. Noct’ll go stone faced through his own damn wedding, ‘less someone tells him to smile for the cameras.”
Prompto’s attention snaps back to Gladio. “Yessir,” he replies, “Sorry, sir.”
Gladio chuckles. “Yo, Noct; where’d you find this one? He’s not half bad. Got better manners than you do.”
Noct has stepped out of his exercise, and discards the sword at the far end of the room, a rack of wooden weapons Prompto had spotted earlier holding a place for it. As soon as he steps away from it, his characteristic slouch returns, shoulders easing downward. He makes a soft click of tongue, a tch sound, and sidles over to Gladio’s side. “Sounds like you’re living the dream,” Noct comments.
Gladio shoves at his shoulder, emanating an ease that probably only is present among those you’ve grown up with since childhood. Prompto himself wouldn’t know anything about that, he supposes. Nonetheless, he’s never seen Noct this loose limbed and easy, despite the cut throat comments they continue to hurl at each other.
“Whaddya say, Highness; we gonna let him enjoy a break and watch a real fight?” Gladio glances at Noct.
Noct scratches at the base of his collar, cut low and exposing a pale length of skin, the tank he’s wearing a lot more naked than he ever looks. He shrugs. “Might as well get it over with so you can stop showing off.”
“Part of my job,” replies Gladio in a beat.
Noct motions for Prompto, “You can sit by the wall for a sec. Catch your breath.” He smiles slightly. Prompto acutely notices how different it looks – his face, all cuts and planes exposed.
He nods, somewhat dumbly, and makes for the offered escape gratefully. He’s not going to say he doesn’t like it – exercise in which you push your body to the absolute brink’s the best kind of self torture. But the break’s welcome. And even moreso when he’s apparently about to watch pros get it on.
“Strap up, kiddo,” Gladio says, and throws some sort of bulging – armor? – at Noct. Noct mutters, “Kiddo,” in a surly murmur, but dutifully puts the thing on. It doesn’t look very heavy, so Prompto figures it’s at least not about to be a life and death-type of battle they’ll be undertaking.
Prompto is about to wonder at the lack of weapons: Gladio flexes his fists, but sports no weapon, and Noct only wears the breastplate-thing, nothing more than so. They move into some sort of battle stance: Noct falls slightly pitched forward, bending his knees, his right foot a step before his left. Gladio mirrors him. Prompto thinks they’re going to go at it with fists only, but then why would Noct be wearing a breastplate –
Until he sees Gladio lunge, reflexes viper quick for such a heavy guy, and –
Materialize a huge sword from little more than air, to clutch in his right palm, drive forward as he runs at Noct.
And just when Gladio seems to be crashing into Noct head – and sword, first, and Prompto, operating purely on reflex, is about to shout at him to get out of the way – Noct’s right arm snaps out, and in it materializes a slim broadsword. He parries the blunt of Gladio’s blow, but it sends him skidding on the soles of his feet backwards by sheer force. He shoves off Gladio, and ducks out of the way for a flurry of three strikes aiming for his back and arms, falls back on his soles, circling backwards towards one of the pillars at the far end of the room, sword at half mast in his grip, eyes trained on Gladio.
The next moments are hard to truly appreciate, unless you’re in the know, Prompto concludes, but boy is it cool: Noct swivels and cuts, moving lithe around the arena. Gladio doles out heavy hits and sweeps with his greatsword, lunging on the offensive as often as possible. The metal of the weapons, when meeting, shrieks, and the force and friction makes sparks materialize, embers in the afternoon sun filtering into the room, glowing burnt until they fade out. Noct takes three small steps back, left, back, and then launches himself forward with an audible puff of breath. Gladio steps out of the way, and lifts his sword in a broad arc, to come down on Noct’s unguarded shoulder. Noct swirls up to meet him, his free hand coming up to tighten below where he’s gripping the sword’s hilt, mustering up a two handed parry that pushes him down and into the floor.
Gladio, no doubt seeing his opening, eases off and two-steps backwards, and, as Noct has risen to one knee, swings his sword above himself – something that, logically, should leave him wide open to strike at, but which happens at such a breakneck speed that Prompto can’t see how anyone would be able to even move in towards him – and brings it down at Noct.
Prompto’s breath stutters thickly in his throat, his heart leaping up from his chest, as the world skitters to a stand still. The sword is going to cleave Noct in half, there’s no way he’s going to be able to meet the force of it with his own sword. He wants to get up, wants to shout, this is suddenly life and death, how can they practice –
Noct disappears, from beneath where Gladio’s broadsword is going to crash. He flickers out of view, out of the very air –
And comes to at Prompto’s right hand side.
Prompto blinks. He looks around, and sees Noct, breathing harshly, sweat pearling in the dip between his collar bones, but very much alive and unharmed, swipe at his fringe. He blinks again. His jaw might, maybe a tiny bit, be hanging open, jangling stuck at the bottom of the floor.
Gladio’s voice filters through his conscious, “Aw, man, Highness, I think you broke his brain. Don’t be such a show off.”
Prompto turns to stare at Noct, now unabashedly. “What was that?” he breathes.
Noct grimaces. The sword, which he’d previously held dipped into the floor, disappears, with a dismissive flick of Noct’s wrist. “Ignis is going to make you sign some non-disclosure agreements now. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Nondisclosure – “ Prompto starts saying, stumped.
Gladio snorts. His sword has, as Noct’s, disappeared. He pulls a hand through his hair, slicking it backwards. “I dunno why they bother with the confidentiality stuff. ‘S not as though it’s a secret that His Majesty can do it.”
Noct shrugs. “That’s just ‘cause you’d be summoning stuff in the middle of the street if it weren’t a secret.”
“Yeah, for what?” Gladio replies, “Ladies know I’m hot shit, anyway.”
“Okay, guys,” Prompto cuts in, “Pretend that I’m a mere commoner – which I happen to be – and explain this to me like I have no idea what’s going on – which I don’t. Please.”
Gladio chuckles. He catches a snap of a towel that Noct flings at him. “It runs in the family. A Caelum thing. These guys ain’t Lucian royalty for nothing.”
“The – the summoning crazy looking swords out of thin air?” Prompto says, and then stops to think. “But if it’s a Caelum thing, then – you did it too, right?”
“Well, I’d be a pretty useless Shield if His Highness here could fend better for himself,” Gladio shrugs. “When we’re sworn in as protectors, we get a share of His Highness’ power to wield. It’s pretty neat. Makes your packing lighter, anyway.”
“And the – disappearing and reappearing thing?” Because, obviously it’s not something new to them, but Prompto’s kind of – never seen anything like that happen, except on TV. He’s not sure he’s even heard of this before; how is this supposedly common knowledge? Can King Regis also do this?
“Also a Caelum thing. Warping,” Gladio supplies, in Noct’s stead. Noct, who stands a little too erect for being him, a little too pensive in his silence, to Prompto’s right hand side. “His Majesty’s special forces specialize in that kind’a combat,” he stretches his arms above his head, and pops his neck, “Personally, I prefer gettin’ up close and personal.”
“It’s not – a big deal,” Noct mutters, cutting in. As though he’d like for them not to make light of the fact that he can warp, and summon weapons, out of nothing but the air. “It’s just for show, anyway. It’s not like there’s any real situation in which I could use it.”
Gladio frowns, his sunny expression warping into something a little harder. “Yeah, well, best not jinx that,” he says.
Noct shrugs. “Anyway, are we done?” he says. He turns to Prompto, “You wanna get out of here?”
Prompto gets to his feet, saying nothing in protest. “Sure,” he says, “Let’s go.”
“Hey,” Gladio says, in Prompto’s direction, as they move to exit the room, “You’re not half bad, for such a skinny kid. Don’t let Noct keep you, if you ever feel like coming back to keep at it.”
Prompto salutes him. Something small, a tiny seed, has moved to take root in his stomach, threatening to remain there, warm and growing, expanding. He’s dangerously on the verge of feeling included in something larger: it’s an alien feeling. A good feeling, but weird; nothing he’s used to. Nothing he’s ever known. He scratches at the back of his neck, sweat drying, making his hair clump. He grimaces: this part of training, he’s not really that fond of.
*
Noct leads him through the winding citadel corridors whilst Prompto attempts to pinch himself in the crook of his elbow, get himself to wake up, because, is this really happening to him? He watches the arching hallways, lit up by dim, thin light bulbs, the marbled, black corridors making it kind of perpetually dark. Not in a bad way, just in a – very royal, very expensive sort of way.
“Isn’t it sort of – empty?” asks Prompto, as they come into a large room, with a ceiling in contrasting grey stone, and the expanse of the floor in green marble. Some sort of sculpture ends the room, and beyond them are three huge, scaling windows, through which light filters softly.
Noct hums. “Yeah, a little, I guess. Here, anyway. More people on the upper floors,” he turns a gentle right, and they come upon a row of elevators lining the immediate wall.
Noct has a towel still slung around his neck, and he’s haphazardly stuck his feet into a pair of threadbare sneakers that are trampled down in the backs. Prompto’s taken care to fix his hair somewhat decently, and shrugged on his jacket, tied his shoes properly back on, stands a little extra erect whenever they stop. They’re in a citadel, and Noct looks like he might as well wander into his own living room at any moment’s notice.
Prompto figures, on the other hand, that this is like his living room. This is where he grew up. It’s not very strange that he’s relaxed here: that he twists through corridors and pathways like he’s mapping out the inside of his own wrist.
The elevator doors ping shut softly behind them. Noct presses a button, indicating the 31st floor.
“Hey,” Noct says, as the soft buzz of the elevator moving envelope them. “Something’s up.”
Prompto shakes his head. He laughs a little, “I’m that transparent, huh,” he says, a little sheepish. “But nah, nothing you need to concern yourself with, buddy.”
Noct tilts his head slightly. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh really?” he says, in that tone that Prompto’s come to recognize with the prince as his I’m very interested so I’m not going to stop bugging you until you talk-tone. It’s not something he often uses, a non-intrusive person by nature, but Prompto’s heard it enough times to be able to discern when Noct’s not about to let something go. “Prom, anyone who’s not blind can see when you’re thinking too hard. And you never think too hard about anything good.”
He grimaces. He’s that bad, apparently. “It’s – “ he starts, and drops the sentence. Shakes his head. “It’s really stupid,” he attempts, “Seriously, nothing that’s worth the effort.”
Noct hums. “Doesn’t mean it’s not bothering you,” he points out. Which – is true, Prompto admits.
“It’s just – this is so – “ he indicates around with a wave of his hand, the one that’s not shoved into his pocket, massaging a loose thread that’s begun to unravel the seam somewhat. He’s going to have to stitch them up, he realizes. “I don’t really know that much about you. Or this life. It’s just, a little overwhelming, you know?”
Noct’s left eyebrow rises a little on his forehead. Though, if anything, his expression morphs into something a little troubled. “I really don’t,” he says, slowly, “Sorry. But if you explain it, maybe.”
Prompto chews a little on the inside of his bottom lip, the soft flesh bunching between his teeth. “I’m just a regular guy, you know? I’m not used to this, is all. You have a – a castle for a home, and a bodyguard, and read classified government stuff in the cafeteria. You can – I don’t know, you can just make medieval swords out of air. You’re the prince, dude. I mean, that’s not why I like you or anything – I couldn’t care less, but, I just – dunno why I’m here. Taking a stroll around the citadel in my hand me down-sneakers, and commoner manners, and stuff.”
Prompto’s gone on a rant for long enough to have to suck in a lungful of air for resupply, as he falls short of continuing, not really sure why or how or what he’s really saying. Why he’s – telling Noct this. It’s stupid, he knows it is. But, well, what’s done is done. He’d curse himself, but that’d be weird, doing out loud, now.
He looks at anything but Noct, as the elevator slows to a barely noticeable stop. Prompto winces: he’d sort of forgotten they’re in a very public place. Probably being filmed. Security’s gotta be everywhere here. And he’s so deep in his own thoughts that he startles, when Noct, at the same time as the doors slide open, lays a palm on his shoulder, warmth bleeding through the thin cotton of his jacket. Prompto looks up, a splotch of color seeping through his skin, staining the bridge of his nose in that way he kind of hates. It highlights the smatter of freckles he’d most of all like to color away. But Noct –
Noct’s head remains slightly tilted. His brow is drawn into a light frown, his expression like he’s looking out through a window and realizes that outside, it’s raining. “Alright,” he says.
Prompto frowns. “Yeah?” he asks, unsure of what that’s supposed to mean.
“If you’d like to share this with all the people who work here, that’s fine.” Noct’s lips curve slightly, “But my old room’s just down the hall. So.”
“ - So we should probably go there. Right. Sorry,” Prompto concludes. His skin is itching, like he’d rather peel it off and melt into the floor. He would like that. It’d be less displaying his insecurities to do that, than to have them branded on the outside with words, like right now.
Noct withdraws his hand. “You apologize for the weirdest stuff,” he says, and steps out of the slightly cramped elevator space.
Luckily, the only people they do meet are two soldiers, dressed to the nines in low shine leather and gold ornamented buttons, strappy belts rattling with things Prompto guesses are very sharp and very deadly. They seem to be on their way towards Something Important, and do decidedly not have the time of day to stop for anything, other than to briefly glance over Prompto, and to greet Noct, a unison chime of “Good day, Your Highness,” that Noct only nods in return at. They don’t stop to consider Prompto’s ratty workout gear, which – small mercies, or to voice any concerns about the prince wandering the citadel with a stranger.
Noct gestures for him to turn a left as they approach the end of their current path, which is equally dark in interior, walls lined with grand portraits and steep with high shine metallic placates and inscriptions. The kings and queens of old, Prompto concludes, as all of them somewhat share uniform, and are painted in much the same way.
“You going to have your portrait painted like that, too?” he says, in quest of lightening the mood that he’d put the damper on – thanks very much, self.
Noct huffs. Despite going ahead of their two man party, only the expanse of his back available to see, Prompto can imagine the slight distaste of his expression. “I have one. It’s of me as a kid, though. Not very regal.”
He stops upon coming up before a kind of anonymous door, sealed subtly into the wall to their immediate right. It’s not locked, so Noct pushes lightly at it, and it glides inwards on smooth handles.
The innards of the room are sparsely decorated: Thick tapestries drape over the windows, and pool down on the floor. There’s a thick, plush woven mat in the midst of the floor. To the left wall lines a large bed, to the right a desk and a branching bookshelf. Another, jointed, dark room can be glimpsed along the far wall, which Prompto figures for a bathroom.
Noct hits a switch on the close wall, and the room lights up from a low hanging chandelier.
Prompto whistles, despite himself. “Nice,” he comments.
Noct snorts. “The interior decorator’ll be happy to hear.” He walks into the room, and pulls slightly at one of the low hanging curtains, tugging it aside to let some natural light in. Prompto remains just inside, but has enough sense to allow the door to slide shut behind him.
He says nothing, but knows that when Noct turns around, shoulders slightly illuminated by the cast of bright light behind him, arms crossed, once more, over his chest – that his friend hasn’t let it go. One can dream.
“This has been my room since I was four and let out of the nursery,” Noct comments. He gestures around the room. “Used to think it was scary. It’s not exactly cheery, and back then it was kind of large, for a kid. Dad tried to be here every night, but couldn’t be, most of the time.”
“He’s the king,” Prompto, perhaps a little pointlessly, points out. He’s not sure of what to say to that, really.
“He’s the king,” Noct parrots. He slumps down on the bed, rolling his head, his neck popping hollow. “I used to think that sucked. Always skipped ahead of my caretaker and hid behind any of the gargoyles in the meeting room whenever dad and the council adjourned for a session, just ‘cause I had to see what dad was doing, since he was way too busy to give me the time of day. Nothing that could be important, obviously.”
Prompto looks at Noct, the way his mouth tilts wryly, the way he leans back on his palms on the bed, the line of his body long and easy. Five foot nine, lean on the thin side, cheekbones chalked out in the low light, hair tousled to perfection, even in its disarrayed state of post-workout. By the Astrals, Prompto kind of wants to lie down on the cleanly swept marble floor and remain there, unseen by the world.
“He always found me, of course,” Noct starts up again, “Mop of hair poking up behind a statue or another, nose sticking out because I was way too curious to just hide. My caretaker – she’d always apologize in this long suffering way, like she wanted to say to dad, Your Majesty, your son sucks, but couldn’t. She probably said it when I wasn’t there to parrot her.”
Prompto snorts. “I really doubt she did that,” he says, “Isn’t that, like, treason? Bad mouthing the royal heir?”
“Maybe,” Noct replies, a little lilting towards laughter. “But it shouldn’t be. Kids are horrible.”
“So, what’s her name, your caretaker? Sounds like a nice lady.”
Noct, on the bed, doesn’t immediately reply. He chews a little on his bottom lip, and averts his eyes, from where they’d previously been on Prompto, to somewhere far away. Far past the wall he’s staring at. “She was really nice,” he murmurs, absent now, whereas he’d previously been animated. “She’s not anymore, though. She died.”
Prompto – thinks that that’s just his luck, isn’t it. “Oh,” he says, a little dumbly, a little empty, “I’m – Noct, I’m sorry. I didn’t – “
Noct shakes his head. “Don’t,” he cuts in, quickly. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine.” He purses his lips, “It’s not – fine,” he amends, “Not like that. But it was a long time ago. Dad honored her with this foundation, and a spot named after her in the gardens. I know it seems – I don’t know, but everyone always talks about her is if she would’ve liked that.”
“Yeah. Of course. I’m sure she would have.”
“I owe her a great one, I guess,” Noct says. He straightens again, where he’s sat. “She saved my life. So that’s what I owe her. My life.”
Prompto – doesn’t know this. So he says nothing. Supplies nothing. What could he say? He’d – thought, at least, that his insecurities about being a relation of the prince meant something. Spewed it like it should be taken seriously. And now this –
“You’re overthinking something again,” comes Noct’s voice. When Prompto looks at him, he’s, gently teasing, smiling. “I’m not telling you the tragic story of my life to make you feel bad, Prom. You said you don’t know me, so I thought – “
“I didn’t want you to think you had to tell me something traumatic about yourself to make me feel better about myself,” Prompto replies, a little horrified. “Really, Noct, I’m okay. If you want to tell me stuff, I want to hear, but you don’t have to tell me just because you feel – obligated, or whatever. Why you’d feel that, I don’t know, but.”
“That’s what friends are for, though,” Noct argues, “Not because it’s obligatory. Because it’s natural. And also, it wasn’t supposed to be tragic. But beside the point now, I guess.”
Prompto sighs, sagging a little against the wall, where he’s remained standing, leaning into it for support only. “Guess I can’t say you’re wrong in that. You have a secret degree in psychoanalyzing, buddy?”
Noct snorts. “You know me. Moonlighting as a psychologist’s just what I consider a good time.” He considers Prompto. “Seriously, though,” he says, pointedly, “I’m not worth having a chip on your shoulder for. I’m not really that big of a deal.”
And Prompto knows he doesn’t think so; speaks loosely, easily, disregards his heritage. Hangs out with Prompto, sharing kebabs and challenging each other’s high scores on King’s Knight, ducks away from his security detail sometimes to grab a movie in the heart of the city. Extends a standing invitation for Prompto to come hang at his apartment. Smacks his Algebra books open over their lunch table, roping Prompto into helping him with his notes because he’s really, terribly uninterested in math, and nothing’s going to change that; certainly not studying alone. He’s got a sweet tooth a mile wide, is too lazy to do his own dishes, and can, and will, nap everywhere. He's -
“You are a big deal,” Prompto argues, after a stretch of silence that is a little too long, he decides, and continues, “’Cause friends are that, to each other. Right?” because Noct looks like he's about to start protesting.
Noct laughs, instead, seemingly surprised by the turn of phrase. “You’re getting it now,” he says.
He’s not going to say that he gets it, like that. But, yeah, maybe. In time. If they can continue being friends, like this.
*