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“When we do this,” Noct says grimly, steeling his breath, “there’s no turning back.”
“Damn right,” says Gladio. “Now you’re getting it.”
Noct would scoff if he wasn’t cracking under the weight of it.
"So that’s -- that’s it, huh?" Prompto speaks up, icily, and they all look up. He barks a humorless laugh Noct's never heard out of him before. It makes his skin itch. "That's what I signed up for? To lead the fucking lamb to slaughter?" He spits every single word, punctuated through grit teeth as he stands up and kicks a log of the fire, sending embers flaring.
"Prompto," Ignis says, a single note of warning -- but with an underlying gentleness Noct's learned to pick up. "Please."
Noct flinches. He knows it wasn’t fair to never tell him outright, but gods, they don't want to talk about this. Especially not now, when they’re all so broken and battered.
"Nah, no, don't worry Iggy, s'cool. Totally fine. To leave me in the dark about, you know, the most important fucking part of all this."
His voice cracks around the edges, brittle and raw. Bitterness bleeds from his tongue to all of them, soaking Noct to the skin like a fresh wound, and he closes his eyes when he feels heat gather behind them. Gladio stays dangerously silent, hands steepled in his lap, a telling set to his jaw betraying his calm. None of them want to talk about this.
Prompto's fists are balled tight at his sides, the thumbnail of one hand digging into the soft skin of his index finger so hard it bleeds. Noctis twitches.
"Stand beside you, that's what I was told to do. What I swore, Noct. To the King himself, you remember that?" Prompto's eyes stay on the fire, illuminating his face ghoulishly. "Promised to die for you. Or with you, worst case. I never agreed to fucking mourn you," he whispers harshly, with all the vehement resolve in the world, and swallows down a sob before he backs away and disappears into the tent, leaving the rest of them stunned to silence.
Noct lets Prompto go, ducking his head beneath his bangs so the others can’t see the tears when they fall. Or rather -- he thinks bitterly, chancing a glance up at Ignis, the barely-healed wounds criss-crossing his eyes and lets the guilt eat him alive -- so Gladio can’t.
- - -
Prompto can't catch his breath, thoughts a whirlwind, clattering and banging around in his head. How had he not known? Seen the tells, every hint, glaringly obvious and mocking him in hindsight. He grabs at his hair, tugging the careful spikes into disarray, as he thinks of Regis. Lucian magic drains life force. The ring, a conduit for the Crystal's power, his own body just a vessel -- it was killing him. The same ring they're going looking for, the one Noct will don to slay the daemons and save Eos.
It's like a bad movie.
There's always a cost, huh. There always has been, hasn't there? Prompto doesn't find his breath.
Is this why they didn't tell him? His legs wobble, bringing him down to his knees as he tries to relax his grip and not tear his fucking hair out. Did they keep quiet because they saw this weakness already, thought he wouldn't be able to handle it? Well, they were right. He can't. And more than that, he doesn't want to.
He wants to collapse, or scream, fight his way to the gods themselves and make them change fate.
Prompto's not so naïve -- he knew this trip was a one-way ticket. Soon as Insomnia Falls made the headline, they all did. And even before that, the tells were there. Storm clouds on the horizon, whispers bringing war, a foreboding air thick and heavy blanketing the city they left behind. Prompto had known it was his duty as Crownsguard to protect Noct, and even expected they'd get more than they bargained for.
So when Cor the Immortal sliced a neat line across his palm with the edge of a knife and asked him, “Prompto Argentum, do you swear with your blood that you will willingly give up your life for your Prince?” He knew what that meant, bore the weight of it, and he’d said yes in a blink, faster and surer than even the others. Nothing against them, of course; they’d been ready to die for Noct since they were in diapers.
But Prompto isn’t here for the same reasons, and he knows it.
He wasn’t supposed to be. Gods know, he wasn’t meant to be -- but he’s the only one of the four of them who ever had a choice. And he chose them. And he’d chose them every time, in a thousand lifetimes, a thousand times over.
He’s not here for his family or his legacy. This isn’t his calling, nor his birthright.
He’s not sure when the choice was made, birthed and formed deep inside his heart without him knowing, but it was so easy to say out loud, to lay it bare for His Majesty and the Kingsglaive and the gods themselves.
He would die for Noctis. Without a second thought.
But that thought, it’s not humble, and it’s not sacrificial -- it’s an ugly, selfish little shock that burns through him, pure panic and reaction at the thought of living without him. Because when he looks close at this life apart from his best friend, and the person he was before -- he’s not really sure that giving it up says much.
What says more, he thinks, is how he’d live for him. How he does live for him, and with him, and because of him, every day. Not for his Prince. Not King, not the Chosen, not Noctis Lucis Caelum -- for Noct.
And what he's gonna do when the time comes, and his reason is gone.
He should maybe be more worried that he’s got no one else, besides them. About co-dependence or whatever, and that pedestal everyone else in this godsforsaken kingdom has Noct on -- but it’s not that, not really -- and Prompto's survived on his own before. He's just grateful, is all. And giving up his life wouldn’t be a sacrifice, anyway, when Noct’s already saved his.
Because sacrifice implies worth. Maybe then, at least, they’d be even.
But what can he do? He wracks his brain as bloodless knuckles come to press heavy on his thighs, trying to remember his breathing again, like putting one foot in front of the other. The thought of losing Noct, losing him for good and watching him go, is like learning to walk on broken legs, without the hope of setting bones.
He's helpless in his grief, a jagged and gaping wound of loss for someone he still has -- and he bites his cheek against the impulse to storm out of the tent and hug his best friend numb. Instead he holds himself there -- because if he did that, if he grabbed on now, he doesn't think he'd ever be able to let go.
Prompto knows Ignis and Gladio love Noctis just as much as he does. Maybe not the same way Prompto does, and not the way they obviously love each other, but that doesn't matter. How can they live with this? Does Ignis know he's advising a pawn, just a cog in a rusted machine? Does Gladio know the King will shatter before his Shield?
How can they go along? Prompto's known for ten minutes, and he's been ready since the five second mark to say fuck the Astrals, fuck the prophesy, fuck Eos, light's not worth his life.
He knows how ugly this is. He knows. If he wasn't worthy of being Crownsguard before, he sure as hell isn’t now. His feelings were never supposed to outshine his loyalty to the crown, but he’s smart enough to know that they have been all along.
Selfish recklessness isn't a good trait for a bodyguard. He picks at the patches on his vest, runs trembling fingers over deep royal black. He doesn't deserve to wear this uniform, and hold what it stands for. Because fuck the crown if it crushes the skull, fuck royalty if it kills its own. He'd rather watch the Astrals fall from the sky and bleed out, one by one, than lead Noct another step closer to his own death.
But gods, they’ve all resigned themselves to Noct’s fate already. Are they really giving up? Do they really expect him to do the same?
He kneels there on the floor of the tent, the rocks beneath digging into soft skin, watching the shadows of the only family he’s ever had waver and flicker in the firelight like they’ll disappear in a blink. He hugs his knees close and curses every god he’s come to know -- but sitting there, under the stars and sky they hold, he’s never been more agonizingly aware of the fact that he is, and always has been, completely fucking helpless.
- - -
It all happens, like he feared, like a bad dream he can’t wake up from.
He never for a second let himself believe it, let inevitability seep into his skin like a poison, but he saw the ring on Noct’s finger when he saved his life in the Keep. Noct walked headfirst past Ardyn and into the Crystal, letting it claim his life -- all their lives, in turn -- as if it had any right to. And the rest of them are left to pick up the pieces.
Ignis and Gladio, he knows they can’t stand to look at the hope in his eyes anymore. He hasn’t seen them in months, and Prompto’s long given up on holding his tongue against the gods. There’s nothing they can take from him now.
Every day he wakes up, he expects it to be to slanting golden rays through the windows, to Noct’s soft snoring and warmth next to him, and is confused every time it’s still dark, his bed left empty and cold.
You never quite get used to a world without the sun.
- - -
The day that Cindy comes in to relay Talcott’s message, Prompto debates even leaving his room. They’ve had false alarms before. He’s not sure if he can handle another one. But, she says he sounded sure, her eyes kind and hopeful, and tells him that Ignis and Gladio even came from Lestallum on his word.
Prompto stares down at his hands. He’s not sure he can go out there, where they’re all waiting for another bum lead, another letdown, but he’s not convinced they won’t come to get him first. His eyes sweep the little room he’s made his own in Cindy’s garage, at the dusty shelves and cluttered floor. The unfinished projects and tinker toys, little inventions to put together and dismantle at night to keep his hands busy when sleep won’t come.
His camera sits untouched, gathering dust, staring at him like a knowing eye from his desk. He looks away. He forces himself up and out, at least to see Ignis and Gladio for a rare visit. He wipes sweaty palms on his jeans and tugs at his shirt. Just a little while, he tells himself. Just a check-in. Then he can go back and start on a new project, get his mind off of it, fix fix fix until his fingers bleed.
He tries, with every step, not to get his hopes up.
He fails.
- - -
Ignis sets a hand on his shoulder. “Always good to see you, Prompto.” He smiles. “Well, figuratively speaking.” Gladio groans.
That at least wrings a laugh out of Prompto, even if it sounds a little off-tune.
They sit in front of the camper at the old creaky table in older, creakier chairs, Prompto fidgeting and grasping for something to say. Some conversation piece to show he’s doing just fine.
Ignis gets up to talk to one of the hunters about supplies for a night’s stay for the two of them, and if they can help with any upkeep the next few days, in case. In case they made the trip here for no damn reason. Prompto watches him go, moving with the ease and grace he used to. Somehow.
“Prom, you been eating?” Gladio mutters discreetly, snapping Prompto out of his head. He keeps his voice low, eyes sharp and probing. Usually it’d be Ignis to notice, like he did back in high school, and Prompto wants to kick himself for thinking that.
“I know food’s scarce, but,” he gestures vaguely, accusingly. “It ain’t that scarce.”
Prompto doesn't have the time or the stomach to look in the mirror much these days, but he’s pretty sure there’s a decade’s worth of bags under his eyes, and he knows his ring finger and thumb almost touch around his right wrist. He knows his bandana keeps slipping off.
He responds a few beats too late, and they both know it. “You know me, big guy,” he waves dismissively, flashing a grin. “Always working too hard.” He goes for a laugh, and it’s the least convincing thing he’s ever heard.
Gladio doesn’t budge. Prompto can’t look him in the eye.
Leaving his room was a fucking mistake.
The hunts he takes are less frequent these days, choosing instead to focus on upkeep around Hammerhead. It’s methodical, his technological prowess coming in handy to keep the lights and machines running smoothly. He doesn’t have to think too much, just wait out the days and let time tick by, waiting for… well. Waiting.
He tells himself he’s barely even felt the last few years.
Downside is, he doesn’t think he’s actually held a conversation that didn’t involve wattage, or circuit boards, or how to get daemon blood out of cotton in even longer.
He’s lost his touch, here. And they both know Gladio doesn’t bullshit. Prompto’s so tired, and more than ever he feels like a caged animal in this outpost. His legs feel weak and heavy, itching every day to run and jump like they used to, but he knows he wouldn’t have the energy even if he had the room.
Gladio leans elbows on knees, closer to Prompto, and forces him to meet his eyes. They’re kind, but firm. Prompto wants to find pity, some confirmation of the weakling they’ve always seen him as, but there’s that softness there, and grief around the edges. Just like Prompto’s.
“He’d want you to take care of yourself, kid.”
Past-tense. Prompto stops breathing.
“It doesn’t matter what he--“ Prompto starts to snap, cold and vehement through his teeth, when he hears the truck round the corner. His stomach does a little flip, as Talcott pulls up, because he feels it. Feels -- something. He said he wouldn’t get his hopes up, but fuck, here they are, a few miles above his head and into the stratosphere.
Before he can think, before Noct’s memory can come flooding back into his barren wasteland of a heart to torture him like the first few years, headlights flash over the parking lot and into his eyes. Hunters open the gate, someone opens the passenger door, and Prompto’s stomach drops, because they fucking bow.
And forget the fucking memory, there he is, fifty feet in front of him, in real fucking life, climbing out of the dingy green truck.
“Six,” Iggy breathes, walking back from the restaurant to stand beside them, and Prompto’s got no fucking idea how he knows. “Is it --?”
He stands there sheepishly, a hand on his hip and hair in his eyes. It’s -- he’s -- Prompto can’t even move. His shoulders are hunched and his eyes sweep and search until he finds Prompto’s stunned ones across the lot, blinking a mile a minute like it’s a cheap trick that’ll dissolve away if he breaks line of sight.
He smiles wide and disbelieving, tears immediately spilling for both of them like a mirror as he sees Noct mouth his name.
For Prompto, this was dawn.
- - -
“Ten years of beauty sleep did you wonders, Noct,” says Ignis, with a small grin.
Gladio groans. “If you were wondering, those jokes never actually stopped.”
Noctis laughs, though he barely recognizes the sound.
They gesture for him to sit, and all gather around him. He tells them about the Crystal, and Ardyn, this one last mission they’ll have to undertake. Their faces go solemn with understanding. Prompto looks away, looks ready to bolt like he did the day he found out. He’s grateful that there’s at least one part of all this he doesn’t actually have to explain.
Noct doesn’t want to tear himself away from Ignis and Gladio’s company after so long, but they’re all tired from their own respective journeys, and they’ll make time. They break off to see to sleeping arrangements, content with a night of catching up and pretending not to cry, tip-toeing around plans and destinies better left for tomorrow.
And if tomorrow doesn’t really have much meaning anymore, well. They’ll give it one.
Ignis and Gladio break off to settle into the camper for the night, Gladio’s guiding hand settling on the small of Ignis’s back, more comfort and familiarity than necessity. Ignis can get around just fine these days, and a sharp jab goes through Noct. Because while he left them, floating with the Astrals and dead to the world for his minutes into their into years, he found his own way.
Looks like they all did.
Noct wanders over to where Prompto’s leaning against a far railing, tapping the toe of his boot against the pavement and gazing out over the hills of Leide. He settles next to him, brushing shoulders to announce his presence, and rests his chin on his folded hands on the rail of the fence. They can’t see far in the hazy dark, but remembering the beauty of the deserts here from a lifetime ago fills in the blanks.
Noct leans in a little closer, because fuck, he can’t help it. Prompto twitches, a little jolt of electricity going through him, before breathing out and leaning in, like he’s trying to get used to human contact again.
Since he got here, since he laid his eyes on Prompto’s bright blue ones again and felt the years they held, Noct’s had a hard time not keeping a constant touch. He’s trying to ground himself in Prompto’s warmth and reality, but he gets the feeling Prompto’s a little less sure. He jumps every time like Noct’s body’s fire, like he hasn’t been close to anyone in ages. There’s been nobody else, huh.
And Noct wonders, has he really been that starved?
But Prompto won’t stop looking at him, and Noct’s no better. They keep trying to tear their eyes away, like one of them will disappear, but while Noct’s are grateful, Prompto’s are darting and frantic. Noct tries to look past his best friend’s gaunt cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the jerky twitch to all his movements.
“Ten years,” Noct says to the moonless sky, because he barely believes it -- but he can see it staring back at him in every line of Prompto’s face, the faded freckles on pale skin. Prompto inhales, sharp and shaking.
“Ten years,” he echoes. He goes for casual, but his voice sounds as hollow as Noct feels. “Long time, huh Noct?” Prompto rolls his shoulders, shifting new and old freckles and scars underneath his ratty old tank top, and Noctis has to look away.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding dumbly, because he doesn’t have the stomach to say much else.
“You have… no idea,” he starts, laughing a humorless note, and hesitates, wringing his hands. He heaves a breath, like the words are heavy to speak. Noct thinks they just might be.
Gods. He’s afraid he’s opened the fucking floodgates.
Noct puts a tentative hand on his shoulder, electricity again. He rubs slow circles, urging him on. “Then tell me,” he says simply, hoping he can take it.
Prompto wets his lips, and it all comes tumbling out.
“For the first few weeks, before things got real bad, we didn’t do much, you know? Just sat there and waited, mostly. What were we supposed to do? Every day we woke up, we expected you to be there, expected daytime. Took… months for it to sink in.” His voice wavers towards the end. Noct’s teeth find his bottom lip and come down hard. He’s not sure he wants to hear this.
“And even then we’d do dumb shit, y'know, like set an extra place at dinner after Iggy started cooking again. Least we didn’t have to worry about the veggies, huh Noct?”
Neither of them laugh.
Prompto runs shaky fingers through spiked hair. Noctis stares. It’s styled exactly the same as it was, albeit a little less meticulously, but for some stupid reason, that’s the single fact that has tears threatening to spill over. His fingers twitch to take Prompto’s hand, but he keeps them still, just like all those years ago.
“Prompto, I--“ Noct starts, and lets the words die. Prompto shakes his head, flashing a cracked smile.
“Gladio left first,” he continues, not without enormous effort, and the smile fades. “Off to Lestallum to throw himself into, I dunno, anything. I know he’d never say it but, you were… his everything, Noct. To all of us, yeah, but his whole life, his legacy -- he was born to protect you, dude. And Iggy, to follow you. A damn… year went by and we could all barely look at each other anymore. It was just a reminder that we’d all failed our mission.”
His bloodless knuckles grip the railing like a vice as he hunches over it, and his voice audibly cracks on the word failed. It sounds just as bitter as it must taste. Noctis wants to scrub it from Prompto’s tongue and from his own ears, because they didn’t. They didn’t, they didn’t, they didn’t--
“You were… for all of us, you were our reason. And,” he holds his hands up between them as Noct opens his mouth, “before you say anything, you weren’t our burden. I don’t know if you know it, or if Gladio does, or even Iggy, but there was a point, for all of us, where we knew you. You weren’t our ruler. You weren’t Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum anymore -- at least, maybe just for appearances. Maybe just ‘cos Iggy would kill us if we forgot it,” he chuckles, a little too fast and off-key, and Noctis sort of tries to as well, but it comes out strange and choked.
Noct closes his eyes and tries to remember that point. When he went from Highness to Noctis, Noctis to Noct, Noct to prince charmless. When they all became Specs, Big Guy, Blondie. When he realized he’d give up anything for them, even though it was supposed to be the other way around.
“Still remember him almost having a stroke hearing you call me chocobutt the first time you met him,” says Noct.
Prompto barks a laugh, like broken glass.
Noct’d laugh too, if he could find his breath. If his chest wasn’t caving in like a old house in a flood.
“We were ready to die for you, you know. Fighting those daemons in the Keep, when you ran off. But fuck, Noct--“ he says, forcing the words through his teeth and clenching his eyes tight, shaking his head. “I told you before, didn't I? We weren’t ready to mourn for you.” Noctis reaches for his hand this time, because he has no fucking idea what else to do. Prompto takes it like it’s something sacred, and Noct squeezes, hard enough to hurt.
Noct thought he was ready to die too. He says so. Prompto twitches.
“You don’t -- you didn’t even know -- you didn’t even feel the years go by inside that thing -- but we did, Noct!” He turns to face Noctis, tears pouring, eyes fierce and pained. “Gods, we felt every single fucking grain of sand from the hourglass. Every day I’d wake up and say, ‘today’s the day. When I go out there, the sun’ll be out.’ And every single day, I was wrong. And we had to believe that you died for nothing.” Prompto pulls his hand away, and scrubs an arm over his face. He grips the railing white-knuckle tight, and sucks in quick breaths that hardly reaches his lungs.
Noctis drops his head low, tears coming steadily, unbidden. He wants Prompto to get it out, but gods, he doesn’t want to hear this. He knows it all already, but he just -- he just woke up. It’s been just hours for him. How is he supposed to reconcile this?
Ten years stolen from him.
Ten years he could have had with Prompto, figuring themselves out and making up for their high school fumbling. With Ignis, and Gladio, watching each pair grow closer, at their side and they at his. Ten years as a tradeoff, and now he gets mere days with them before he walks to his death.
He still can’t believe it all.
He brings a hand hand up to his chin, rubbing along his beard and the sharp line of his jaw. His whole body feels different. There’s aches were there weren’t before, his bones creaking like settling wood in an old house.
Prompto makes a soft sound in the silence, and their eyes meet. “Noct, you know I'd -- you know I don't blame you for this, right? I don’t. I know who to blame,” he says, tone dangerously even, but with an edge he can’t hide.
“So do I,” says Noct, through his teeth.
Noct does know who, and he knows the fucking feeling. Prompto’s voice is hoarse and scratchy, words all having come out choppy and frantic. He swallows slowly and breathes, with effort. Prompto always did have a set of lungs on him, from years of running and having everything to say. What happened to the Prompto who had the breath to talk for hours and not get tired? What has he done to him?
Noct flicks his tongue against his teeth to unstick it from the roof of his mouth, tasting copper and cotton.
He tips his head sideways to face Prompto, and they’re both crying, tears dripping down their chins and wetting their shirts. Noct can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Prompto cry. He gets a good look at him now, and he looks spent -- a desaturated, washed-out version of the Prompto he knew, the one who could rival the sun for its brightness.
He looks like he hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep the whole time Noct was gone. He wouldn’t be surprised if that were true.
“Fuck royalty, fuck the Lucian line, fuck daemons -- all of it, we wanted Noct back.” He swipes at his cheek, and scoffs at his wet fingers. “We just fucking wanted you back. We didn’t want to grow up without you. I didn’t… want to fucking grow up without my best friend.”
He almost whispers the last words, broken and heavy. His grip on the fence falters as his shoulders slump, and Noctis steps forward. He wraps his arms around Prompto to hold him up, gentle and tentative, unsure he’s got any right to. Prompto shudders, buries his face in his chest. An invitation.
“I’m here now,” he says, knowing it’s worlds away from good enough.
“This world,” he whispers, Noct feeling the words just as much as hearing them, “this whole world is fucked, dude, and I could’ve dealt with that. We’d fix it, like we do. S’fine, right?” He tries to laugh again. Fuck, he just keeps trying to laugh it off like he always did. Noct’s chest pounds a dull ache, and he wonders if Prompto can feel it through worn fabric. “I could have done anything -- but fuck them Noct, they -- they took the one thing I couldn’t live without.”
He still doesn't have to say who they are. Noct knows, and he trembles with it. He’s not sure what cursing the Astrals could hurt at this point.
Noctis holds him tighter, crying right along with him. He’s stronger now, Noctis can tell. It feels like it’s been just hours since the Keep, since he helped him down from that fucking torture machine and held him until both their legs were numb, but touch betrays the truth.
His back is more wiry, arms and shoulders littered with new scars that Noctis knows nothing about, from things he wasn’t there to protect him from. His whole body curls in on Prompto, unwilling to let him go ever again. He wants to memorize every inch. He wants to give them what they couldn’t have back then, make up for ten years apart, and his chest heaves because he knows he can’t.
“Prompto, no, I--“ he stutters out, the words thick and viscous on his tongue like syrup, or molten lava -- they half-choke him, filling up his throat as he speaks. “I’m going to -- I, I can't ask you to--“
“Die,” he cuts him off, lifting his head and meeting Noctis’s eyes, swollen and red from tears but piercingly clear in the bright lights of the outpost. “Ask me to die, you mean." Prompto's voice is scratchy and small, but firmer than Noct’s ever heard from him. "I know there’s a chance we’re not coming back from this, Noct -- I know that. And that’s..." he exhales, nodding firmly to himself. “If that’s the way… it’s okay. I won’t speak for Ignis and Gladio, but I know they know too. We knew since we saw that Insomnian headline that this was a one-way trip, dude, and none of us turned around then.”
Noctis opens his trembling lips to protest again, tasting salt, and Prompto just shakes his head, smiling sadly.
“Noct, we’ve been dying every day you’ve been gone,” he says quietly, and presses a sweet, slow kiss to Noctis’s lips, the bristling tickle on both of their cheeks betraying exactly how long it's been since they last did this. “Once more can’t hurt.”
- - -
The walk through Insomnia is… hard.
Not the fighting; the fighting’s the easy part. Years of training together doesn’t go forgotten so easily, muscle memory twitching to life as they dodge and strike and move together like it hasn’t been a decade.
But Noct thought he was ready for this. He was willing to do what it took, as a King should for his people. Swimming through the Crystal, trying to find his way back to them, he thought of that night in the Keep. He meant what he said -- he is going to make this world a better place. And if he isn’t around to see it, well. Maybe… that’s okay, he tells himself. Destiny is destiny. He knows he can trust them to pick up the pieces.
The one thing the three of them have over Noct is stamina, at this point. Noct’s magic may be more powerful now, but his bones creak and his knee shakes under the weight of him, and they agree to take another night in an abandoned room under the subway. The truth is, he could probably keep going, if he wanted to. He really, really doesn’t.
It’s selfish, and the people of Eos have waited long enough in darkness, but the prospect of one more night with them before he goes is too much to give up.
It’s hard to talk, when they settle in.
They manage; Prompto weaseling a smile out of the three of them with his bad jokes, like he always has. Ignis sneaks in his puns, until they make a cringey game out of whose is the worst, Gladio taking the cake hands down with some crap about kings and fishing -- and Noct’s conviction wavers like smoke in a breeze.
Before they turn in, Prompto wants a picture. Gladio rolls his eyes, but there’s no conviction in it, eyes glassy and pink. With shaking hands and a quivering smile, Prompto takes a selfie. They all pose instinctively like they used to when things were better, the four of them grinning under a bright sky and a brighter future. All four of them lean in close, and Noct feels warmer than he has in years. The flash is quick and bright, and then it’s over. Prompto clicks a few buttons on the camera, giving the old processor time to load, and shows them.
Ignis wears a smile, small and soft, an arm around Gladio’s waist, a firm hand on Noct’s shoulder. Gladio’s closed eyes crinkle at the corners, grin wide and toothy, holding Ignis right back and giving a crooked thumbs-up. Prompto’s face is only half in frame, throwing up a piece sign that almost crops Noct out of the picture, Gladio points out with a snort, as he describes them all to Ignis.
But in this shot, Noct, he’s not looking at the camera. He looks awkward, of course, like he always has in pictures - but his eyes are soft and pained, and he follows his own gaze to the back of Prompto’s head. Prompto notices at the same time, and the look they share cracks open Noct’s ribs.
Before they fall asleep, Prompto crawls into Noct’s bunk and wraps his arms tight around his waist, fitting them together like the continents. He presses a soft kiss to his head, and whispers brokenly into the tangle of his hair, “isn’t there any other way?”
And Noct’s resolve crumbles like the old stone of Insomnia.
- - -
Ignis at his right squeezes his shoulder, and he leans into the touch, grounding himself in the warmth of his brothers at his side.
He feels the crackle of the ring through his own fingers, the promise of dawn heavy in the air like the sun’s just waiting to rise. Prompto grabs Noct's hand, links his with Ignis and Ignis with Gladio, as they walk up the crumbling stairs of the Citadel in perfect step, to where the Starscourge himself lies in wait.
They stop in front of the enormous doors, adorned with etchings of Bahamut and Ifrit, a battle Noct’s set to rival. Ignis smirks, a set to his jaw Noct's only ever seen when he knows something Noct doesn’t. "Let's end this, shall we?"
Noct nods, and he’s never been more sure. They’ll all walk into the light, together. They'll see this through at each others' side, like they've done everything else. One way or another, if they do this, it's on their terms. And no one, immortal or otherwise, is gonna break them up now.
He dares them to try.
- - -
They're together again, in the end. Not Ardyn’s magic, not even the Astrals themselves could keep them apart.
When Noctis wakes up, it’s with heavy hands pressing hard rhythm to his chest. To three pairs of eyes, haggard and spilling, and three pairs of arms, warm and embracing. One pair of shaky lips breathing into his and then lingering, coaxing him awake.
They brought him back from the edge, Ignis tells him, brushing hair back from his sweat-slick forehead. The sword missed vital organs and bone, miraculously, conveniently. Long as his heart was beating, however faintly, as he bled out Lucian magic and his own blood on the throne, they found that ethers would do just enough to cauterize, to keep him alive. And they handled the rest.
“Now you know why I insisted on the importance basic first aid,” Ignis says, still trying for a lecture with pouring eyes and a shattered voice.
“Did you think we’d let you get away with that?” says Gladio, gripping his fingers. “Can’t get outta being King that easy.”
“Proved you wrong, huh Prom?” Noct croaks through sharp jabs of pain, through sandpaper and wax in his throat.
Prompto just laughs, half-crazed, and kisses his forehead, mixing their tears.
Just like Noct, they refused to give up.
It’s hazy. He clawed his way back to them, that much he remembers. Never willing to look away, to lax his grip on them even as he brought an Immortal to his knees in the Astral plane. The gods must have thought that worthy of something.
Right now, though, there’s a hole in his chest and blood staining his royal raiment. And more painful than his wounds is the realization that somewhere between the Sword of the Father and Gladio forcing his heart to beat again, the pull of ancient magic has gone dark.
That is his price, he knows. The cost is etched in fire that licks its way up his left arm from his ring finger, tracing up his neck in jagged scars of wicked lightning. If the Astrals meant to remind him of their grace, they did their job.
Noctis will never forget.
His ties to the Astrals are severed, no Armiger to call to his fingertips, but he swears he can still feel Luna and his father, a warm presence nestled behind the crown of his head, pulsing pride and thanks.
And he reaches for them whenever he loses his way, when the crown weighs too heavy, giving him a crutch to lean on. But, even when air turns to sap in his lungs and he’s doubled over, shaking from nightmares or daymares or cruel little flashes of memory -- he finds that there’s more shoulders to lean on these days than he ever knew.
They mourn for the Lucian line in the stead of mourning the last Lucian King. For now, at least. They rebuild, and they restore, counting their lost and trying to heal.
He borrows Gladio’s steadfast strength every morning to shake the terrors from his brain. Ignis lends him an ear and a word, urging him to remember, rather than bury. And Prompto, finger adorned with a matching gold band and much like the twin rings Ignis and Gladio share, fills in every blank left, freely giving hands and lips and laughter and everything Noct needs. And Noctis, he learns to give right back.
And they heal.
And through them, Eos heals.
And Noctis learns, hand in hand with his retinue, that gods aren’t the only ones who can shape the future.