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It starts with an exotic cocktail of burning bile to run its way up his insides, lying deep in this throat as it twists and seeps among the muscle. It’s terribly uncomfortable, naturally, and it settles in with a woozy head and swing in his step. He’s not drunk, not really,
but he’s never felt more intoxicated.
He realises that there is blood- it startles him initially, not understanding the extent at which he had hurt himself. He knows his isn’t how a prince should act- how an adult should act- but he doesn’t care. Not in the slightest and alarming to society’s condemnatory, sharp eyes. He feels sickened and buzzed, the warmth of the crimson stick running ever so slightly on the pale of his arms, along the veins; mimicking the inside interior. Most would say he’s suicidal, at many a time he is but right now, he feels nothing. He doesn’t seek death but it doesn’t feel foreign to him; not anymore.
The exhaustion pulls at the bags of his blue orbs, the whites red from the latter and he feels his cold, bleeding body limp in a pathetic way on his unwashed covers. He hates himself, he really does and feels himself fall slowly into unconsciousness, and nothing really matters, not anymore.
,,
He wakes the next day at ten- early for him and late for others. Grunting and groaning, lifting his pounding head, nausea swimming in waves up and down his abdomen, it reminds him and how much he really hates himself.
The light ventures under the white of his dusty blinds, warm and somewhat inviting. Noctis doesn’t see the appeal and turns to smother his sore face into the familiar smell of his bedsheets; the self-hated seeping in strong strokes from last night’s ruthless blade. There are rusty colours down his arms and hints of red here and there- muddy. He should clean it up but he lives alone and he doesn’t want to, he won’t yet.
His mobile rings and he curses loudly, hating whoever created the obviously wretched device. Somehow and with great difficulty in his shaky, sweating body, he grabs it and it almost slips from his grasp, his hand faltering with a simple task- he’s been so weak recently and this morning is no exception.
When he answers he gets a spilt second of something akin to happiness but not quite. It’s a comfort hearing his best friend’s voice, it truly is and he is grateful but he doesn’t feel the same whish of affection he always used to. Today, like most, he feels hollowed and empty.
,,
“Hey there Noct!” The strawberry blonde called, his freckled and sun-kissed skin blushed with the excitement of facing his closest friend.
Noctis wants to show affection but finds it difficult to it put in motion or mood. Anyway, it had only been two days since he’d seen the bright and bouncy man and he realises that is a great comfort to see him, despite his acerbic mood.
They talk- Prompto is joyous, hyper and lively; Noctis has never felt so different.
“So how ya been?” he buzzes, active and living, words rolling off his tongue with ease and without stutters or hesitance, polar to Noct’s perturbed sentences.
How could he tell his friend how he’d been? Nothing had happened for him apart from late night showers- standing exposed with red running down his long limbs. Sleeping in till twelve and lack of emotion, or motion itself. So he’ll lie.
“I’m alright- yeah- haven’t been doing too much- things here and there.” Nothing, truly.
“Cool!” The sky eyed and sunny man chirps, outwardly positive as if the next day was to be one of the last.
‘I don’t deserve someone as positive as you.’
,,
They return to the arcade- a place where their adolescence resided, a hit of nostalgia hitting Noctis in the face without remorse. He misses those days. Despite the troubles it held at times, he felt more alive back then; more like him.
However, Prompto’s natural light continued to shine through with a blinding spark of ongoing optimism that Noctis may always envy.
‘I don’t deserve him.’
Switching from each arcade game that appeared in Prompto’s sight; it was obviously calling out to be played.
It was fun to be with Prompto despite Noctis’ continuous internal anguish.
But it wasn’t as fun as it used to and Noctis cannot stop thinking;
‘I don’t deserve him.’
,,
After lounging at a particularly nice but notoriously famous (and expensive) coffee shop, the sunny blonde somehow convinces Noctis to stay over. That’s absolutely fine to him, a getaway; but it lingers and hangs heavy over his head, crushing the back of his skull, an angry voice- ‘selfish.’
So they get in Prompto’s car and mosey on to his apartment, its radio playing mediocre songs that they both know they’d love if they were fifteen again; however this doesn’t change the fact Prompto hums to each and every tune. Noctis would be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel a little lighter inside, despite the pressure on his cranium;
‘Selfish.’
,,
It’s not cold outside and the sun is low- pink dotting the sky as they tumble out of the vehicle, Prompto already fumbling with the keys to the door. Noctis turns to view the sky again and feels appreciation for it, feels an odd sense of belonging; but he’s tired and he just wants to fall on Prompto’s sofa. He’ll appreciate it again tomorrow evening if he can.
They get in, the sound of discarded keys and flick of switches as Noctis is lulled into the nonchalance of the room, politely sitting on the first chair in sight as he feels his eyelids pull heavy on his face. Prompto smiles and puts a palm to his bony shoulder; “I’ll make food.”
Ironically he doesn’t; calling for a takeout and snuggling next to Noctis as he switches on the television. Noctis is eternally grateful to the man beside him, as he feels a rush of affection form in the pit of his tender stomach. The hum of the television is low as they binge watch a series of inane programmes, chuckling at their foolishness.
Despite the thoughts drilling against his brain- he feels a little better; the boy beside him warming up his core physically and emotionally. It’s nice and something he didn’t realise how much he’d missed.
,,
For a while they talk; their mouths stuffed to the brim with junk food as they converse in and out of various subjects whether heavy or light. Noctis is so grateful that he is able to talk so deeply with the man beside him.
He loves Prompto in a way that gives his head hasty thoughts in which he tires his best to not focus on. He doesn’t want to disrupt him or interfere in any way.
“I’m happy.” Prompto murmurs after a while, his head lying on the fractionally taller man’s shoulder. He too feels a hint of exhaustion, Noctis can tell. He wraps an arm around him, a thumb stroking his elbow and he lays his head back, his throat exposed to the ceiling above. His head races and he closes his dark-circled eyes,
‘I'm okay.'
,,
He awakes at six in the morning, his body cramped from the sofa and his arms give particularly hard throbs that make him hiss quietly. He clenches and unclenches his fists, distracting his pains, distracting his head. Stretching out, he realises that Prompto isn’t there and he feels a little colder in ways more than one.
He stumbles to his tired feet and almost blindly finds his way around Prompto’s small and cosy apartment; but it feels colder as he traces his pale fingers along the walls in the dark.
The bathroom is slightly ajar, the light breaking through and there is shuffling here and there. The light is powerful and too much to Noctis’ taste as he squints and thinks not to knock the bathroom door.
Inside is a heavy breathing, sniffling and fear’s fickle fingers begin to choke Noctis’ throat as he feels a million sharp pangs of aggressive daggers ripping between every intricate tendon.
The feeling is tight as he pushes the door to find Prompto struggling around. His body is cut- injured, knifed and a deep cerise pooling around his ribs. The room shakes and Noctis chokes with fear as he watches one of the people he cherishes most gag with a glazed over look. And he has never felt worse.
,,
He jolts; sweat bleeding and rising in every pore, salt on his chapped, swelled lips. It was just a fragment of his consciousness and a nightmare at most as he fingers his hands in the dark, slowly feeling them card into Prompto’s silky, sunny locks. The boy stirs and grumbles; Noctis feels safer for sure and sighs, deeply grateful for his current reality.
The only thing that remains is the deep, raw aches he receives in both arms- its swells screaming at him for mercy. He doesn’t listen and moves on.
That morning he avoids the bathroom- its imagery too vivid as Prompto makes coffee in the room near.
He curses his brain and everything in it as he scratches the sleeves on his jumper, his fingernails tipping the surface of his brown and scabbed wounds. He genuinely feels disgusting and wants an outlet- he knows his friend is that outlet and he feels deeply disturbed.
Prompto, on the other hand, is whizzing around the kitchen humming to mindless tunes that wrap around one’s head. He seems happy; on the surface at least. Honestly, Noctis wants him to be truthful with his emotions but he knows he can’t say much.
They are human- they are troubled.
,,