Chapter Text
There’s pale hair all over the floor, in clumps. First there were little bits, tentatively snipped; then came longer strands, chopped at with confidence.
When he looks into the mirror, it’s like there’s somebody else staring back.
Prompto.
He says it aloud, to try it out — whispered, at first, then louder.
‘Prompto.’
He thinks it sounds just right.
They’re meeting up at the arcade, as they do every Saturday. He’s got a pocketful of change, whatever he could scrounge out from the couch cushions back home. There’s always the temptation to dip into the jar he keeps on his desk, but those savings are precious — out of bounds.
The outside of Gold Saucer is all done up in garish neons, the logo of a chocobo in front of a race flag emblazoned above in yellow and red. There are a couple of kids standing outside, smoking — older than Prompto by a few years, but not too old to spend their afternoon blowing change at the arcade.
One of them, the guy with the hair shaved at the sides and kept long on top, watches him as he goes in.
He’s nervous; self-conscious. This’ll be his first time seeing Noct since cutting his hair, and he’s worried what his friend will have to say. He thought about writing an email to explain everything first, but he wound up deleting every awkward, jumbled attempt at putting it into words.
He’ll talk to Noct about it — eventually. Just not today.
He bops his head along to the music of the games he passes by. There’s something playing in the background, some fast-paced dance tune that he recognises faintly. It takes him a little while to realise it’s coming from the Dance Dance Revolution machine at the back.
There’s a crowd gathered around it when he gets there — from the little kids to the older teens, it seems like everybody’s captivated.
He already knows it’s Noct, before he gets there. For somebody who’s set to be the king someday, the crown prince has spent many a weekend honing this particular skill to an art, and even Prompto — for whom video games are like second nature — can’t hope to keep up.
He imagines people are watching him as he makes his way through the crowd, imagines they’re staring at his newly-cropped hair, at the baggy jeans and the flannel shirt, several sizes too big to hide the curve of his waist.
Noct isn’t alone when he gets to the machine; there’s another guy at his side, maybe a year or two older with neatly-combed hair and thick-framed glasses perched on his nose.
If Prompto didn’t know better, he’d say this guy is even better than Noct.
The screens in front of the two teenagers are a blur of lights and colours; Prompto tries to seek out their respective scores but he finds himself distracted by the mayhem of button prompts and combos indicators.
The song ends and Prompto feels the crowd rush forward to see who emerged victorious. To his surprise, it’s the stranger with the glasses. Somehow, his preppy sweater and shirt are unruffled even now, after the exertion.
‘Hey, Argentum,’ Noct says, wiping his face down. He spares a brief glance at Prompto’s hair before nodding toward his companion. ‘This is Ignis. He’s kind of like my advisor.’
Ignis extends a hand to shake Prompto’s; it’s a little warm, though surprisingly devoid of sweat. Prompto finds himself wondering if this guy is ever caught looking anything less than immaculate.
‘I didn’t think DDR was part of a royal advisor’s duties,’ Prompto says.
Ignis closes his eyes sagely, folding his arms across his chest.
‘You’d be surprised the talents one picks up in this line of work.’
‘You wanna take over from me?’ Noctis says, stepping down from the machine. ‘Gotta refuel before I can take on the champ again.’
‘Sure,’ Prompto says.
He slips under the bar and onto the dance mat, tugging at his button-up to make sure it’s in place. Ignis lets him pick out the song, and for the first time he feels pressure — if he were going up against Noct, he’d know that it wouldn’t matter if he won or lost. With this stranger, one of Noct’s royal retinue no less, he feels the urge to impress him, or at the very least not embarrass himself.
He picks something he knows he’s comfortable with: something a little faster, because he always seems to stumble on the slower-paced tracks, but nothing so difficult that he’ll fall flat on his face.
It takes him a little while to warm up; Ignis, while no doubt tired, has the benefit of already being in the zone. Prompto feels like he blunders through the first round, but Ignis thankfully says nothing negative. He doesn’t say much of anything, Prompto finds — even when he nervously laughs about how badly he’s doing, Noct’s advisor merely adjusts the position of his glasses on his nose and keeps his eyes on the screen ahead.
Noct comes back with tall cups of soda and ice; in a brief reprieve he extends one out to Prompto, guiding the straw into his mouth so he can take a sip.
By the end of the first round, Prompto’s sweating. He regrets the flannel, regrets how baggy his clothes are. Any other day he’d be here in skinny jeans and a tee, with no layers to weigh him down. He knows he could do so much better, if only…
Ignis is a gracious winner, at least; he merely nods his head when Prompto congratulates him in the end and steps down to let Noct take over.
Prompto is sweating buckets, the underarms of his flannel soaked through. He feels sick and dizzy, like the lights and sounds are too much. He sucks down half his cup of soda in one sitting and succeeds only in making himself feel worse.
There’s a hand on his elbow, and he realises Noct is at his side.
‘Somebody take over,’ the prince says, waving his hand toward the dance mat.
Prompto sees Ignis raise an eyebrow, though he doesn’t question it as a new challenger steps up.
‘Come get some air with me,’ Noct says, nudging Prompto’s arm. ‘It’s too frickin’ hot in here.’
Prompto’s glad for the excuse to get out for a while. The air in the arcade is always thick and stale, but today it seems worse, trapped under the layers of his clothes as he is. He takes a little while gulping in cool breaths once they’re outside; thankfully the guys out there are no longer smoking.
‘Everything all right?’ the one with the fancy haircut asks.
It dawns on Prompto that this guy must be another part of the prince’s retinue — some bodyguard, probably. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt, his broad frame filling out the shoulders, and he looks like he could easily snap a dude in two if it came to it.
‘Yeah,’ Noct says. ‘Just getting some air, nothing to have a fit over.’
Irritation flashes across the bodyguard’s face.
‘Maybe I wouldn’t need to have a fit if you didn’t insist on going to the arcade today.’
Noct huffs and turns away, steering Prompto far from the bodyguard’s watchful gaze.
‘That’s Gladio,’ he says. ‘I think I mentioned him before? He’ll be my shield when I’m king.’
Prompto nods. He thinks he remembers the name — something to do with flowers.
‘Yeah, you did,’ Prompto said. ‘Why’s he tailing you today? And that Ignis guy?’
Noct leans on the wall, drawing a knee up and planting his foot back against it. His hair falls into his eyes when he glowers down at the ground and he shakes his head, tossing it out of his way.
‘Some bullshit the marshal put in place,’ he says, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Too dangerous for the heir apparent to wander around alone any more.’
Prompto snorts.
‘Dangerous? What, somebody gonna take offense because you beat their high score?’
‘I know, right?’ Noct says, with a tut. ‘Biggest waste of time, ever.’
Prompto sips on his straw. Moves to the wall and leans against it at Noct’s side, tipping his head back with a sigh.
‘So,’ Noct says, watching him. ‘You cut your hair, huh?’
Prompto wondered when he would mention it; he feels his cheeks burn now that the attention is on him and lifts a hand to self-consciously card through the blond strands. It feels weird to him — alien. The ends are all stubby from being haphazardly cut, and he’s pretty sure it’s uneven, but he’s glad he did it, even if he wound up going shorter than he meant to.
‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. ‘Felt like a change.’
Noctis nods. Prompto expects him to say something more — maybe mock him for it — but he stares out across the street in silence. On the other side, there’s a noodle house, closed until the evening; Prompto’s stomach gives a little pang at the thought of a bowl of their house special, hot and steaming.
‘Wanna head back in?’ Prompto suggests.
Noct gives a noncommittal shrug.
‘I guess. I’m playing you next, though. Sick of losing every time.’