Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing is, Gladio went into this whole charade with good intentions. He certainly wasn’t out to take advantage of someone he considered a friend. It was his idea— and it was a stupid one— but it was an idea he thought would work. 

“How could you let me go through with it, Iggy?” he moans into his hands. “You’re supposed to be the voice of reason.”

Ignis tsks impatiently, tugging Gladio’s suit lapels straight and smoothing out invisible wrinkles. When Gladio risks a glance at him, there’s a wry smile kissing the corners of his mouth. 

“If you’ll remember,” Gladio’s oldest friend says succinctly, “you asked me not to say ‘I told you so.’ Now come along. You of all people can’t be late for the wedding.”

That’s how it all started. 

The wedding. 

(Then) 

Gladio’s used to a certain level of anxiety from Prompto. He’s always thrumming with nervous energy, picking at his woven bracelet, wringing his hands, bouncing on the soles of his boots. 

Today there’s something more to it. He was distracted during training, missing strikes and slow to block, and he has a colorful bruise along his cheekbone to show for it. For someone who usually pours a hundred and ten percent into everything he does, it’s enough of a tell. Gladio has known him long enough to know when something’s up.  

“Everything okay, Blondie?” he asks mildly.  

Prompto flinches like he managed to forget Gladio was sitting next to him. After a beat, he works up one of those blinding smiles his friends have all come to loathe, an empty slant of his mouth that means absolutely nothing. 

“Yeah, I’m! I’m good, haha, just— lost in thought, I guess. Did you wanna go again?”

Gladio gives him a considering look, even as he gamely lets Prompto wrap a hand around his and tug him back up to his feet. 

They’re alone in the yard, the new recruits gone for the day. He really ought to send Prompto home too so he’s not dead on his feet on duty tomorrow, or else suffer Ignis’ wrath— but he’s so keyed up, so obviously looking for a distraction to throw himself into, that Gladio says, “Let’s run through some of those drills from earlier. If I send you home with a shiner like that and nothing to show for it, Prince Charmless will give me an earful.” 

Prompto’s empty smile warms a little, and by the time he leaves he’s laughing, and that’s more than worth the lecture Gladio gets for keeping him two hours too late. 

It’s better not to push. Prom doesn’t do well under pressure, has never enjoyed being the center of too much attention, would probably try to walk off a broken leg before asking for any help.  

He’s the most low-maintenance friend Gladio has ever had. All he has to do is stick around for when Prom decides to let himself need somebody and then do his best to be what he needs.

Three days is all it takes.

At dinner, Prompto slides an envelope across the table. It’s a glossy number with his name written in golden calligraphy across the front. 

He says, with an air of gravity better suited someone discussing their own funeral, “My cousin is getting married.”

Gladio blinks, taken aback. Similarly, Ignis only says “Ah,” and Noctis frowns at the offending item on his dining room table. None of them know where to go with this.

“Congrats, I guess,” Gladio says. “Not sure what the problem is, Blondie.”

“They sent me an invitation,” Prompto replies. His voice is high and tight with anxiety, and he’s probably wringing his hands under the table. “With a plus one,” he stresses, encouraging them to share in his despair. 

“So don’t go,” Noctis says, his face gone stormy. “You don’t have to go, Prom.”

“No, I— they’re expecting me. My parents. I have to go, or— “ He doesn’t quite finish, the way he’s never quite finished any definitive statement about his parents in the six years Gladio has known him. “I don’t want to disappoint them,” Prompto finishes lamely.

Ignis is the one who picks up the envelope and slides the invitation out. His studies the details for a moment and says, “A destination wedding, is it? You’ll be going all the way to Galdin Quay?”

“Yeah, I— I’ll have to take time off,” Prompto says, darting a glance at Gladio. “It’s not until next month, at least.”

“They didn’t give you much notice,” Noct points out. “How long did you know about this?”

“My parents called last week and told me to watch the mail for the letter,” is Prompto’s glum reply. “They said they’d have someone  for me to meet when I got there, as a date for the weekend. ‘Cause the seating is arranged already, they don’t want there to be an empty chair. But I panicked.” He looks beseeching, as if begging them to be on his side here. “I didn’t want to be stuck with a stranger all weekend! What if it was really awkward! What if they were an asshole, or a creep—“

“They really shouldn’t have sprung such a thing on you,” Ignis agrees severely. Whole pounds slip off Prompto’s shoulders as the advisor goes on, “No one faults you for losing your composure.”

“So what happened?” Gladio presses him. “What’d you say?” 

With a groan, Prompto buries his face in the tabletop. “I said I was dating somebody, and I’d rather bring them as my plus one.”

“Oh man,” Gladio mutters. 

“Aw, Prom,” Noct says. 

“I haven’t dated since high school!” Prompto wails, and Ignis calls the conversation to a close in favor of coaxing Prompto into the kitchen for a cup of tea.

“He shouldn’t have to go,” Noct bites out, jabbing at a carrot on his plate with disproportionate hatred. “Fuck those guys.”

“They’re his family,” Gladio replies, even though his heart’s not really in it. “People get weird about their family.”

“No, we’re his family,” Noctis argues hotly. “His mom and dad didn’t even come to graduation. Specs made him a cake.” 

Gladio concedes that with a nod. “Still, if he thinks he’s gotta do it, there’s nothing we can do to stop him.” 

“He’s gonna be miserable. He’s already miserable!” Noctis shoves his plate away with a scowl. “I just wish one of us could go with him.” 

The words seem to stick in Gladio’s mind.

He thinks about them. Turns them over. Thinks about them some more.

“You’ll what?” Prompto says slowly, blinking owlishly at him. 

“I’ll be your date,” Gladio replies with a grin. “Your parents won’t know any better, will they? And this way you’ll have a friend with you for the weekend.”

Ignis has a look on his face reminiscent of a man who can see the train wreck coming but has absolutely no way to stop it.  

Noctis says, “That’s not fair! If anyone should get to fake-date Prom, it’s me.”

“Absolutely not,” says Ignis, at the same time Gladio says, “The council would have a fucking conniption” and Noctis subsides with a scowl.

“Um,” Prompto pipes up, looking at Gladio with those round blue eyes, a shy hush in his voice that Gladio hasn’t heard in a long time. “Do you really— do you mean that? You’d do that for me?”

Gladio leans back in his chair and looks at him. Kinda wants to say “I’d do a lot more than that for you, dumbass” but he doesn’t want to make Prompto cry again so soon after Ignis worked his magic with the calming tea.  

So he settles for another grin, makes it playful and sharklike, and says, “It’s one weekend, Blondie. I can pretend to be in love with you for that long.”

Prompto brightens with a smile like the sun coming out after a storm, and Gladio thinks, Yeah, one weekend is nothing.

Chapter Text

“Gladiolus, I swear to the Six, if you hurt that boy,” Ignis hisses the next time the two of them are alone, and Gladio frowns.

“The hell’s that supposed to mean? I don’t need the shovel talk, I’m friends with him, too. And it’s not like this is for real.”

Ignis is wearing a pinched, pissed off expression. He stands there with his arms folded, examining Gladio through narrow eyes.

“Open your eyes, or this isn’t going to end any way but badly. I will be there to say I told you so.”

He sounds like he knows something the rest of them don’t. It’s unsettling for a moment before Gladio brushes it off. Ignis sounds like that most of the time. 

“I gotta say,” Noctis says, “it was pretty smooth.”

Gladio looks at him sidelong. “What was?”

“You know, the fake dating thing. Way to get your foot in the door. Just don’t blow it.”

Folding his arms, Gladio says, “Why the hell does everyone think I’m gonna screw this up? I’m just doing the guy a favor.”

Noctis rolls his eyes. “Right. Whatever.”

Clarus approves the time-off with a raised eyebrow and a tiny smile. 

“About time,” he says, and slides the paperwork away. ”Good luck, son.”

That’s both less and more of a reaction than Gladio was expecting. He frowns, sitting forward in his chair.

“What, did Ignis tell you?” 

“He didn’t have to. I’m not so old that I’ll miss something that’s right in front of me.”

Carefully, Gladio says, “So—no lecture about disgracing the family name?”

That actually makes his father set his pen down and look at him, with an expression more serious than Gladio was prepared for. 

“Gladiolus, the last thing you are is a disgrace to me. Is this something we need to talk about?”

“No,” Gladio says, standing up too quickly. It’s too early in the morning for a heartfelt lecture. “No, that’s—I got it. Sorry.”

Clarus eyes him for another moment, mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“You should know you have my full support, no matter what choices you make—and, in this case, my blessing.”

Lately every time Gladio talks to someone it feels like they’re having two different conversations. 

At least he didn’t tell me not to screw it up, Gladio thinks wryly.

“Thanks, dad. Glad you’re on board.”

Gladio is shrugging a leather jacket on over a collared shirt, pushing the sleeves up to expose most of his forearms, when Iris leans through his bedroom door. Her eyes light up when she spots him, hands flying to her mouth, and Gladio shoots her an exasperated look in the mirror.

“Oh my gods, Gladdy, that’s your date jacket! I haven’t seen it in forever!” She all but skips inside, perching on the edge of his bed and beaming up at him with more enthusiasm than the situation really warrants. “So who is it? Do I know ‘em?”

“Slow your roll, kid. It’s just Prom.”

Iris blinks, going still in surprise. Then she smiles again, and it’s fuller and brighter than it was before. “Just Prom?”

She springs up from the bed again, circling around to stand in front of him. 

“If you’re breaking out the suede, it’s not just anybody. You look nice!” She pats him on the chest with a deceptively delicate hand, absolutely not fooling Gladio for a second because he’s seen her flip a man twice her size, and adds, “Don’t screw it up.”

And there it is. “Look,” Gladio says for the nth time, “I know what I’m doing.”

“So, you know, just for the record I have no clue what I’m doing,” Prompto finishes awkwardly. 

For a moment, Gladio just stares across the table at him, not sure if he heard right.

Prompto weathers the scrutiny about as well as he always does — which is to say, poorly. He’s all but withering in his chair like a flower left for too long without water, clutching his coffee in both hands as though he wishes it was a full body shield.

“What do you mean you’ve never been on a date?” Gladio asks slowly. “I thought there was that guy in high school, the one Noct hated.”

“I mean—um. Well, he—“ Prompto waffles visibly, picking at the lacquer finish on his mug with a thumbnail. “He really only wanted to uh, get close to Noct, you know? It took me a few months to figure it out, but that’s why I broke it off. I know I never said. So—and after that, I never um—I mean, after that I just kept it casual. One night engagements, you know.”

He follows it up with a finger gun, like this isn’t the most painful thing Gladio’s ever had to hear, and it’s totally cool that Prom just had to pry open his rib cage and bear his heart in the middle of his favorite diner during what was supposed to be an amiable conversation with a friend. Gladio abruptly wants a stiff drink or five.

Prompto was hurt badly enough once that he never trusted himself  or anyone else in that respect again, and Gladio never knew. He wonders if Noct ever knew. 

Considering the prince’s hair trigger temper where his best friend is concerned, and the fact that Gladio was never hauled in for an emergency meeting regarding Noctis trying to get some teenager arrested for treason on false charges or something, it’s a safe bet Prompto never told him either.

It’s a safe bet because Prompto never tells anyone a damn thing when it matters. 

“Well,” Gladio says gruffly, sitting back in his chair and trying to compartmentalize. “We got a month till the wedding, right? That means we got a month to practice.”

“Uh.” Prompto looks caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder. “Practice?”

“Hell yeah, Blondie.” Because Prompto deserves that much, godsdamn. “Because I’m not takin’ a week off work just to half-ass this thing. It needs to look like you know what you’re doing when you show up with a boyfriend. Gotta fool that family of yours, don’t we?”

“Subterfuge,” Prompto says with unrestrained glee. “I get it. Totally. Gotta make it convincing.”

Gladio reaches across the table for his hand, borrowing a move from one of his favorite romance novels. He presses a kiss to Prompto’s knuckles, and the blond starts giggling, and Gladio rolls his eyes.

“Okay, tip one—don’t laugh every time I do something romantic.”

“Right!”

But it’s a cocktail of what looks like relief and gratitude and giddy anticipation that keeps the laughter coming, and Prompto is muffling himself with a sleeve in an attempt to stop, and it’s ridiculous how endearing this guy is. How someone like him wasn’t snatched up years ago is a mystery Gladio is gonna need more than one evening to solve. 

So they set up another date.

“Now generally,” Gladio says mildly, “you don’t wanna take a date somewhere you’ll be side-to-side instead of face-to-face, at least not at first. Eye contact is big when it comes to building attraction, and if you’re at the movies or a show, there’s not much chance to get a conversation going. So busy places like a farmer’s market or an amusement park are good ‘cause there’s plenty to talk about and you can take it at your own pace—cut it short if you’re not feeling it, extend it to a lunch or dinner together if you are. Even a museum trip or a walk in the park is a good call. Biking or skating, not so much.”

Prompto, wobbling a little, arms outspread in a desperate bid to keep his balance, says, “Right, right—and you’re not following your own advice tonight because—?”

“Because how could I pass up watching you bust your ass on the ice?”

The skating rink is all but empty save the two of them, so no one is around to shoot them a dirty look when Prompto shoves Gladio into the boards. Then one of his skates slides out from under him and he pitches sideways with a yelp, and Gladio’s laughing so hard he almost doesn’t catch him in time.

“You won’t actually let me fall, right, big guy?” Prompto says, clutching at his jacket. 

Gladio winds an arm around his waist, pulling him in closer. 

“Nah. By the time we leave, you’ll be skating circles around me.”

Dates three and four come and go quickly. They go to a trivia night at their favorite bar for the third, where Prompto gently whoops Gladio’s ass in every round, and have a dinner picnic on the rooftop of Prompto’s building for the fourth. 

There’s a new photo album on Gladio’s phone of pictures Prompto took of the two of them, “for posterity”— cheesy selfies and surprisingly attractive candids. 

He still giggles when Gladio touches him, and it’s still not as annoying as it should be. 

Gladio brings Prompto a bunch of marigolds tied together with a length of braided twine— in part to get a quick lesson in about flowers and their meanings and the do’s and don’ts attached to gifting bouquets, and in part because he passed by the orange and yellow blossoms in the window of a boutique and they caught his eye. He couldn’t seem to get them out of his head all day.

They’re perfect in Prompto’s hands. 

They have to run back to the car through the rain at the end of date five, Prompto laughing and shivering in the passenger seat, hair damp and falling artlessly around his bright eyes. The distance from the car to Prompto’s building isn’t remarkable, but Gladio gives him his jacket anyway. 

Prompto wears it to date six, and again to lunch with Ignis and Noctis. Ignis recognizes Gladio’s favorite suede jacket when he sees it and his eyes go flat and cold with disapproval.

Gladio ignores him, because there’s no harm in letting Prompto hang onto it. It looks good on him. 

Three weeks in, Prompto answers the door for Gladio without a smile. His face is pale and even his hair seems to droop. 

Gladio takes one look at him and steps inside, closing the door behind him. 

“What happened?” he asks in his not-asking tone. “Gimme a name.”

It makes Prompto laugh, this aborted little chuckle that sounds like it was surprised out of him. At least he’s smiling a bit when he looks up.

“You can’t beat up my dad for me, buddy. Thanks, though.”

Of fucking course. It’s like his parents can tell when Prompto’s been having a truly good time, because their timing is as impeccable as always. 

“What’d he say?” Gladio asks gruffly, steering Prompto into a chair. Prompto lets himself be led with an amused twist to his mouth, as though it’s silly that Gladio cares so much. 

“Just the usual, dude. They don’t want me to embarrass them at the wedding, that’s all. I shouldn’t let him get to me,” says Prompto.

Prompto, who made straight As in high school and worked two part-time jobs to pay the bills that never should have been his responsibility and turned down scholarships for college to join the Crownsguard instead and has only ever tried to make his absent parents proud.

Gladio thinks of his own father, assuring him ‘the last thing you are is a disgrace to me’ and how the words didn’t cost him a damn thing to say. It wasn’t even the first time he’d said something like it.

Prompto’s parents have probably never said anything like it. 

Gladio wants to break something. 

“They don’t know shit about you,” he says as evenly as he’s able. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to them and they’re not even around to see it. Whatever they say is bullshit. If you ever need a reminder, just call me, and I’ll tell you. Anytime.”

“Not anytime,” Prom points out, his voice small, his eyes red and raw around the edges. “After the wedding you won’t be here anymore.”

“Fuck, Prom,” Gladio says in disbelief, sinking into the chair across from him. He reaches across the table, folding Prompto’s thin wrist into his hands. “I’ll still be here. Where the hell do you think I’m gonna go?”

It breaks whatever tentative hold Prompto had on his tears. He brings his free hand up to rub them away, but now his shoulders are shaking, and his breath is hitching. 

Gladio gets up and moves around the table without letting him go, kneeling by his chair.

“I’ll be here,” he says again, willing Prom to believe him. “I’ll always be here.”

In the moment before Gladio leaves, every saccharine novel he’s ever read and every sappy movie he’s ever seen absolutely fail him.

Because Prompto’s eyes are puffy and his face is flushed, but he’s smiling the way he wasn’t when Gladio arrived, and he’s too charming in Gladio’s too-big jacket, and he’s soft around the edges and golden in the low light and touchable in every sense of the word.

And it would make perfect sense to lean down and kiss him. 

And Gladio is completely unprepared for how much he wants to. 

Oh, he thinks, in that instant of stunning, world-bending clarity. Shit. 

Chapter Text

“I’m literally begging you not to say ‘I told you so,’” Gladio says desperately.

All things considered, Gladio’s lucky Ignis doesn’t close the door in his face. It looks like he wants to. It’s closer to morning than midnight and they both have duties to attend to in a few hours, and he’s been pissed at Gladio for weeks anyway.

But they’ve been friends for a long time, and after a moment of cool scrutiny, Ignis relents. He steps aside, a wordless welcome, and says, “I’ll make coffee.”

Gladio sits on the familiar sofa in the familiar living room and feels distinctly out of place. The six minutes it takes Ignis to come back with a cup of coffee in each hand feels like six hours. Gladio barely waits for him to sit down.

“How did you know? I know you know everything but there’s gotta be a limit, Specs.”

“Gladiolus, you haven’t exactly been subtle with your affections,” Ignis says wearily. “I took you as slightly more self-aware than this.” 

What? How subtle is ‘not exactly subtle’? Was he so obvious this whole time that everyone else already knows? How the hell is that fair, when Gladio just figured it out?

“Do you remember your twenty-first birthday?” Ignis asks suddenly. “Your favorite author was doing a book tour, and they were going to be in Insomnia for a weekend, all the way from Accordo. Prompto got you tickets to attend their two-day panel, and you insisted he go with you.”

“Yeah,” Gladio says. “He’d borrowed a few of their books from me and got hooked, so it made sense to bring him.” 

Those tickets are a fond memory, for all that he only remembers it vaguely— the sweep of pleasant surprise and Prompto’s beaming smile— but wracking his brain, Gladio can’t remember the panel at all. 

As if reading his mind, which Gladio wouldn’t put past him at this point, Ignis goes on, “That weekend, Prompto took ill. He couldn’t get out of bed, much less go haring off to a convention. He told you that there was no sense in letting the second ticket go to waste, to take someone else with you instead. But you didn’t.”

He didn’t. Ignis’ cultured voice paints the stage vividly, and he remembers:

Prompto’s sick-sore voice on the phone. Gladio tucking the tickets away beneath the cover of his favorite book. Grabbing his laptop and letting himself into Prompto’s little apartment and setting up camp there for the weekend. Listening to the podcast of the panel together, side by side in Prom’s narrow bed. Prompto looking as though he had no idea what Gladio was doing there, wide-eyed and vulnerable, saying, “I’m sorry you missed out.” Gladio telling him, “I didn’t miss a damn thing.” 

“That’s when I knew,” Ignis says quietly. “I thought that you knew, too.”

Everyone must have thought so. Gladio was the only asshole left in the dark. 

“How am I gonna survive another week of this? Shit— how am I gonna survive the wedding?”

“You’re not still going through with it,” Ignis starts, in the forbidding tone he usually saves for the prince at his most self-destructive. 

“I can’t just bail on him now,” Gladio says, because that was never in the cards. “Walking into that shitstorm alone will be like walking into a snakepit barefoot— and if he doesn’t have a date his parents are going to make his life hell. Did I tell you his dad called earlier?”

Ignis’ expression shifts into one of secondhand anger, and his fingers tighten around his mug imperceptibly. He knows maybe more than the rest of them do about Prompto’s life at home, considering the extensive background checks he was forced to run in the beginning of his friendship with Noct. He’s never let slip anything more damning than Prompto’s own parents did, in the way they were literally never around— but for someone who makes it his business to see to the care and well-being of his companions, the lack of it that Prompto grew up with must be a particular sore spot.

“He needs someone in his corner,” Gladio goes on. His heart settles as he speaks, the panic abating. He’s always known how to make the right call, no matter what it might cost. “I promised I’d be there, Iggy.”

They sit together in companionable silence for a moment, nursing coffee that’s gone cold while the gray of dawn fills the sky outside, and finally Ignis sighs. 

“I can’t make these decisions for you. But I truly think the two of you would benefit from a long talk,” he says, looking at Gladio with keen eyes. “Talk to him.”

“After the wedding,” Gladio says, hoping he means it. “When it’s all over.”

And until then, Gladio’s in a very special hell of his very own creation. 

Prompto comes into the Citadel with a handful of other guards, looking much better than Gladio left him last night. He’s wearing that damn jacket again, and it still looks impossibly charming on him, and now Gladio knows what his subconscious was banging pots and pans together in his brains for three weeks to try and tell him. 

The other guards are wolf-whistling and shoving Prompto good-naturedly on their way to the locker rooms. “Not bad, Argentum,” one of them calls above the others, and Prompto laughs. 

“I know, I know— I’m a lucky guy!” 

Gladio grins at Prom as he passes, waves him a quick good morning, and thinks, eloquently and with feeling, Fuck.

They have two more dates planned before the wedding, and this is the one Gladio was most looking forward to before his stupidly belated revelation. Now he’s wondering if he can cancel it and take Prompto bowling or something and pass that off as the original plan instead.

“You said dress casual, right?” Prompto asks eagerly, piling into the passenger side seat of Gladio’s car. He’s bright-eyed and smiling, his hair loosely styled, in a denim jacket with rolled sleeves and dark skinny jeans and a faded graphic tee. “Is this alright?”

Gladio has seen this outfit a hundred times, has even—Bahamut’s balls—complimented the shape of Prom’s ass in those jeans before, so this is fine. He’s got a stranglehold on the steering wheel, running an internal mantra of don’t make it weird, don’t make it weird, but he manages a sideways smile and even sounds like normal when he says, “Hell yeah it is, Blondie. You ready?”

Prom nods an enthusiastic affirmative, tugging his seatbelt on. He reaches over to turn the radio on, filling the car with something lively and bright, and Gladio is acutely aware of him. Hypersensitive to the space he takes up, the distance between their bodies, how easy it would be to reach over and take Prompto’s hand before he can retract it and chalk it up to practice. Prom would probably laugh and thread their fingers together, effortlessly charming— he’d probably go along with anything. 

Which is exactly why Gladio keeps his hands to himself. He’d sooner set himself on fire than take advantage of this stupid charade he started. Prompto deserves better. Isn’t that what Gladio set out to prove?

“You know,” Prompto says suddenly, “I never got to say thanks. For doing all this. Dating was always such a terrifying concept,” he laughs, “and I’m such a coward. I’d probably never have— you know. I’d never have done any of this with anyone else. But it’s not scary with you.”

Because it’s not real, Gladio reminds himself brutally. This isn’t real, it was never real, and you don’t get to turn it into something else now just ‘cause you want to. 

And nevermind that it feels like there’s something dying in the pit of his chest.

“Hey,” he says warmly, “what are friends for?”

“A studio?” Prompto says as they step out of the car. “What are we doing here?”

Gladio shrugs his hands into his pockets, looking up at the building from beside him. “There’s gonna be dancing at the wedding, I’m guessing. I figured you might wanna learn some moves beforehand.”

Prompto just stands there, looking at him. It’s not too late to go bowling, a cowardly part of Gladio’s brain supplies, but he usually ignores that part on principle. 

“I booked around the classes,” he goes on, a little desperately. “It’ll just be the two of us, so— you know, no pressure. In case you’re worried.”

And then Prompto says, “Really?” 

And he says it in a soft way, truly surprised, like he never thought he’d see the day when someone would want to take him dancing.  

“Prom,” Gladio says, “would I drive us all the way out here for a joke?” 

It’s not what he wants to say— not even close— but it’s enough to chase the doubt out of Prompto’s blue eyes. He grins, silly and sunny and bold, and Gladio loves him. 

It’s nothing like in Gladio’s books. He thought he’d know it when he saw it. But it’s not grand and terrifying and all-encompassing, the way his favorite authors all wrote it.

It’s your friend tucked in bed beside you, his head on your shoulder and his heart in your hands, when romance isn’t even a concept. It’s movie nights and morning runs and being the only two brave enough to taste-test new recipes. It’s knowing how he likes his coffee, knowing how to make him laugh, knowing things he never says out loud. 

It’s what love looks like when it’s quiet, Gladio thinks, and they don’t write about that. How it can creep in naturally, like a dawn. Suddenly you’re standing in the sun, and it’s exactly where you’re supposed to be, and you wouldn’t recognize the moon if you ever saw it again.

Prompto is still humming the last song as Gladio walks him to his door. He‘s sweaty and disheveled after the date-turned-workout, but he hasn’t stopped smiling even once.

“We’re gonna be the talk of the town,” he says, spreading his arms. “I just hope we don’t outshine the bride and groom.”

“I’m glad you’re talking about it like you’re going to a party instead of your own execution,” Gladio says. “Wasn’t doing wonders for my nerves, Prom. Any more of that and I’d accidentally punch the first person who looked at you sideways and get us both kicked out.”

Prompto tips his head back and laughs. His voice carries in the hallway, bouncing off its bare walls and coming back. 

“My hero! But if you did that then we wouldn’t get to go dancing again.”

“You want to?” Gladio asks without thinking. 

“Uh, yeah, dude,” says Prompto, spinning on his heel and walking backwards just to shoot Gladio a look. 

Then the look fades into something else, because Gladio is holding out his hands, waiting. And it takes two seconds at most for it to click, for Prompto to surge forward and close the distance between them and slide into place between Gladio’s hands.

Gladio holds him there for a moment, heart racing. He says, “Give us a tune, Prom.” 

So Prompto starts humming again, the same happy string number he’s had on the brain the whole ride home, and they dance in the empty hallway, past strangers’ apartments, the whole ten feet to Prompto’s front door. 

The light is low and warm, and it does wonders on Prom. Gladio lets go of him with one hand to touch the side of his face. 

This time, Prompto doesn’t laugh. He leans into it, eyes endless and dark, and Gladio— wants. 

He wants— 

“Gladio?” says Prom, and he’s shaken back into his body. Prompto is pressed up against his door, and Gladio is leaning in, and they’re only inches apart, he’s about to— 

He jerks back. “Shit,” he says, heart a deadened lump in his chest. “Shit, Prom, sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Prompto stares at him. Gladio scrambles for an apology, desperate to fix his overstep. 

“It’s not real,” he says, “and I took it too far. I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.”

The quiet of the hall seems oppressive now. It hangs over them, heavy, so thick it’s hard to breathe. 

Then Prompto says, “Hey, it’s okay. All that dancing must have gone to your head, huh? Don’t worry about it.”

And he’s smiling that empty smile, but Gladio takes it anyway. Says goodnight before he can do any more damage and leaves Prompto standing alone in the hallway, trying to convince himself with every step that he isn’t running away. 

Chapter Text

Noct at 2:55am
what the fuck did you do???

Ignis at 3:12am
Oh, well done, Gladio.

Usually Prompto is rotated through various assignments around the Citadel to get a feel for what the regular guardsmen’s duties look like, but ultimately his permanent position will be at Noctis’ side.

And Ignis says as much, coolly, when Prompto’s schedule is abruptly revised and he’s stationed with Noct for the rest of the week instead of the training grounds with Gladio where he had been.

And since Noctis wants fuck all to do with Gladio at the moment, he hasn’t seen much of Prompto either. 

It’s either bravery or stupidity that makes Gladio stand his ground under Ignis’ pointed stare. “I gotta talk to him, Specs.”

“Ah, finally come around to my line of thinking, have we?” Ignis returns his attention to the planner open on his desk and picks up a pen. “Unfortunately, that ship has sailed. Now you’ll just have to wait, and when Prompto is ready to talk to you, he will.”

Relenting just a little, because Ignis is secretly a pushover when it comes to approximately three people in his life, he adds, “I don’t know what happened, but it’s only been a few days, Gladio. Give him time.”

“Gladdy, what the hell is your problem?” Iris demands. She hasn’t punched him yet, but she looks ready to. “Noctis said you made Prompto cry!” 

Gladio feels his stomach drop, an icy weight that hurts the whole sinking way down. “He said that?”

“Well, okay, he didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to. You know he is when it comes to Prom, he’s completely transparent. I asked him how he thought you two were doing because my own brother wouldn’t give me any deets, and Noctis made a face and didn’t answer me—but it was obvious just looking at him. He only looks like that when one of his friends is really upset. What did you do?”

Fucked up, Gladio thinks but doesn’t say, running an agitated hand through his hair. He can’t stop thinking of Prompto in the hallway, soft in the half-light and warm under Gladio’s hands, trusting enough to follow Gladio’s lead no matter what Gladio did to him, and it’s enough to make him feel sick.

“I know, okay?” he says without heat, looking at Iris sidelong. “Whose side are you on anyway?”

She’s barely as tall as his shoulder but she’s fierce, every inch an Amicitia and a force to be reckoned with. Gladio is her brother but Prompto is her friend, and Iris looks up at him without wavering in the slightest. 

“I’m on your side, dummy,” she says impatiently. “Of course I am. We all are. And if you were on your side, you’d be pissed at you, too.” 

He thinks of Ignis’ weighted glares and Noct’s cold shoulders, thinks of his father’s disappointed expression at the breakfast table, thinks of the way they’ve all been rooting for him this whole time even when Gladio himself was oblivious, fumbling around like an idiot in the dark, and then thinks, Oh.

“I’m a dumbass,” he tells his little sister plainly, and she finally softens, not quite smiling.

“That’s the thing, Gladdy. You’re not. You’re one of the smartest guys I know. So I figure you probably know what you need to do now, right?”

There’s a handful of minutes where Gladio is half-convinced Prompto is going to stand him up. Their phone call was brief and awkward, Prompto probably only agreeing to meet him just to get him off the phone, and his voice was so small and unhappy that it made Gladio want to go back in time and kick himself in the teeth.

But the bell above the diner rings out cheerfully twenty minutes after Gladio arrived, and he looks up in time to see Prompto step through. 

Fuck, Gladio thinks with feeling.  

He’s wearing an oversized black hoodie he stole from Noctis years ago, one that’s still a little too big on his narrow frame and swallows up his hands. It’s his Bad Day outfit, something like a shield he can take shelter in when he’s not at his best, and the last time he wore it was back when he was still in therapy every other week. 

The fact that he’s wearing it here, now, is like a punch to the gut. 

But he meets Gladio with a wan smile, sliding into the booth seat across from him. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, absurdly. “Missed the train.”

‘You could have called,’ is on the tip of Gladio’s tongue, but he bites it back before he can make more of an ass of himself than he already has. “Don’t be sorry,” he says instead. “Thanks for coming.”

“Date eight,” Prompto jokes. It sort of falls flat, and Gladio is abruptly taken back to the last time they sat here. When Prompto talked about the boy that took advantage of him when they were teenagers, when he made light of the fact that he never gave his heart away to anyone again after that, when he brightened at Gladio’s bad idea and giggled at the kiss on his hand. 

And now they’re sitting here with what feels like miles between them, and Prompto can’t even really look at him. 

They’re interrupted briefly by the waitress who brought Gladio a coffee earlier. She pours Prompto a glass of ice water and passes him a laminate menu. He looks grateful to have something to do with his hands, tracing a fingertip through the condensation beading on the glass. 

And Gladio can’t bear it anymore.

“Look, Prom—“ he starts. 

“I’m sorry,” Prompto blurts at the same time.

They stare at each other. The late-night crowd around them is a murmur, the clink of cutlery and dishware a quiet backdrop, the dull roar of traffic outside muted and faraway.  

“What did you say?” Gladio asks in disbelief.

“I—um. This whole thing, the dating thing,” Prompto hedges, “we shouldn’t have done it. It was stupid. And you only suggested it to make me feel better, to help me out—and I appreciate it, dude, I can’t even tell you—but it hasn’t been easy for you. You’ve been really uncomfortable, especially—especially lately, and—and I never wanted—I didn’t mean for—“ 

“Prom—“

“No, let me—“ He clenches his hands, visibly frustrated. His eyes are a little bright, and if he cries Gladio is going to lose it. “I’m trying to tell you it’s okay. If you don’t want to do this anymore. I can go by myself, to the wedding. My family doesn’t deserve you anyway,” he adds with a little half-smile. “It’s okay.”

Gladio reaches for him before he can help it, folding his hands over Prompto’s smaller ones. His heart is fucking breaking at the idea that Prompto spent even a second of the last miserable few days feeling guilty for Gladio’s sake, when it’s Gladio’s fault the whole thing blew up in their faces in the first place. 

And now he’s here, pale and kind, smiling at Gladio like Gladio deserves it, giving him an out. 

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he says, slowly, so there’s no way Prompto can misconstrue the words. “I’m the one who—fuck, Prom. Don’t apologize for anything, okay? You’ve been perfect, I’m the asshole.”

Prompto stares at him. The neon lights outside the window wash in over his skin and hair, turn his eyes almost purple, make him look like something that belongs in an art museum. His hands in Gladio’s are trembling. 

“But you said—“ Prompto begins, and doesn’t seem to know where he’s going with it. “I don’t want you to hate me,” he tries again, and then he starts to cry.

Gladio is halfway out of his seat before he’s made the decision to move, hovering over the table. He’s dimly aware of their waitress, heading towards them, who takes one look at the scene and abruptly turns to a different table instead. 

“In what universe would that ever happen?” he demands. “Prom, I promised you I’d be here, didn’t I? For the long haul, for fucking ever, okay? Which Astral do you want me to swear it to, because I will, right here, right now.”

Something like a laugh works its way out of Prom, and he pulls a hand away to scrub at his tears with a sleeve. Suddenly they’re them again—friends and running partners and book buddies and comrades-in-arms—and Prompto looks up at Gladio with familiar eyes. 

“So we’re okay?” he asks, like it’s up to Gladio somehow. 

“We’re whatever you wanna be, Blondie,” he says. “And we’re still going to the wedding together, as friends. We’ll eat their fancy food and compare it unfavorably to Iggy’s, take embarrassing pictures of all your annoying relatives when they get too drunk, and dance to every single song you know. You’ll have a good time. I’ve got your back, okay?”

And there it is—a smile. A real one. The larger part of the ache in Gladio’s chest lets go, and he smiles back. 

Noctis and Prompto are talking in hushed voices with their heads together, Noct’s arm around Prom’s shoulders. It’s a goodbye that has extended an extra ten minutes by now, and Gladio finds himself glad they’re hitting the road a day early at this rate.

There’s a big storm brewing in Leide, but it shouldn’t reach the coast before it blows off toward Duscae, so the beachside wedding is probably safe. Prompto looks relieved to hear that for his cousin’s sake, because he’s a sweetheart. 

Ignis took the packing upon himself because he said frankly that neither Prompto or Gladio could be trusted. He’s folding the garment bags containing their suits into the trunk of the car carefully, along with a few last-minute instructions for Gladio on how to wear them. 

“Iggy, I think we can dress ourselves just fine,” Gladio says dryly. “We’re adults.”

“That remains to be seen,” Ignis replies without missing a beat, closing the trunk. “Noctis, they need to get going. Hand him over.”

Ignis loses a little of his perpetual decorum when he hugs Prompto goodbye, squeezing him for an extra moment that makes the shorter blond laugh. Noctis punches Gladio on the arm and makes him swear to text, even though it’s only going to be a weeklong trip. Ignis tells him, “Do take care,” and then, uncharacteristically, “Good luck.”

Prompto has never been out of Insomnia before, and his eyes are wide as they drive past the Wall. 

The third time he leans out the window with his camera while they’re pushing seventy on the open highway, Gladio drags him back in by the hood of his shirt. 

“Look, you see something you wanna shoot, tell me,” Gladio says. “I’ll slow down. A pretty picture ain’t worth losin’ your head over.”

“Says you,” Prompto retorts, but he settles back into his seat. And when the road bends, and his first glimpse of Leide comes into view, he sucks in a breath. “Gladio—“

Half an hour later, Gladio’s driving just under the speed limit, and Prompto is putting his camera through its paces. Leide is nothing but dusty prairie land, really, a never-ending expanse of it, and Gladio would be buried in a book by now if he had a choice. 

But with Prompto beside him, and their pace considerably slowed, and the gray sky overhead softening some of the harsh, dry landscape, Gladio tries to look through Prompto’s eyes. 

And then—yeah. He can kind of see it. Once or twice he even nudges the brakes before Prompto has a chance to ask, slowing down in face of something he thinks Prompto will want to take a picture of, to keep with him and look back on fondly. 

Those times, Prompto looks at him sidelong, but doesn’t say anything past a cheerful, “Thanks, big guy.”

By evening, the rain’s coming down so hard Gladio can hardly see out the windshield. Prompto pulls his phone away from his ear and says, “Noct says pull over at a motel for the night or he’ll kick your ass.”

“He can try.”

“I dunno, Iggy sounds like he’ll help.”

So they veer off course just a little, because Gladio isn’t fool enough not to take a threat like that seriously. There’s a rest area south of Longwythe Peak, little more than a cluster of shops and a gas station, but the neon motel sign is an inviting beacon through the dark sheets of rain. 

Prompto pops his door open and says, “I’ll grab us a room while you find a place to park.”

By the time Gladio meets him at the door with their bags, they’re both soaked and Prompto’s shivering, but he brandishes a key with a toothy grin. 

“Last room,” he singsongs. “Are we lucky or what?”

Or what, it turns out. 

Gladio wonders if the Astrals are laughing at him at this point, as he stares inside at the single queen-size bed.  

“It’s the only one they had,” Prompto says suddenly. He sounds upset now, because of whatever Gladio’s expression looks like. “I can sleep on the floor if you want, I don’t mind.”

“Prom, you’re not sleeping on the godsdamned floor,” Gladio says succinctly, because he’d sooner sleep out in the rain than let that happen. “Where the hell is your brain? I’m just not looking forward to a cheap motel bed after being crammed in that car all day.”

Prompto doesn’t look totally convinced, because he’s not an idiot, but he rolls with it anyway. 

“Man, I hope it’s comfy,” he says with that perpetual good cheer that Gladio hasn’t taken at face value since Prom was fifteen. “That long car ride was killer. I couldn’t imagine driving around like that all the time.”

They’ve shared a bed before, plenty of times. It’s nothing to be weird about.

By the time they’ve both showered, the combination of the pleasant warmth and the smooth sheets and the dull thunder of rain is dragging even Gladio into loose-limbed comfort. Prompto is watching something on TV with sleepy half-interest, and surrenders the remote without much fight. The lights go out, and Prompto settles in under the blanket with a quiet sound, and Gladio very carefully doesn’t turn his head to look at him because it would put them nose to nose.

He hasn’t thought about it since the night he hurt Prompto—hasn’t let himself think about it—but it’s still there. The want. 

He wishes it would just go away. 

“Gladio?” Prom asks suddenly. His voice is stark in the stillness of the room, reaching softly through the dark. “You awake?”

“Yeah.” 

“D’you remember your birthday a few years ago, when I got sick and you stayed with me for a few days? We listened to a podcast, and Iggy brought us soup, and you climbed in bed with me when I was too miserable to sleep.”

Gladio blinks up at the ceiling he can’t quite make out in the dark, his heart pounding. 

“I remember.”

“I think about that sometimes,” Prom whispers, like he’s sharing a secret.

Gladio finally gives in and turns to look at him, but by then Prompto is already asleep.

The wedding set-up at the Mother of Pearl restaurant is somehow both over the top and tasteful, and Prompto forgets his nerves in one fell swoop when he catches sight of the ocean. 

“I see the sea!” he says, bouncing his legs. Gladio parks in the first spot he finds before Prompto can make the decision to dive out of a moving vehicle for a photo op. “Let’s take a selfie for Noct and Iggy, come on!”

There’s plenty of time before they need to show their faces at the rehearsal dinner, and Gladio would happily arrive late just to be petty at Prom’s parents anyway. So they traipse down the beach, slipping in the loose sand, and Prom takes what feels like a dozen pictures for every step. 

“We gotta come back here sometime,” Prom says eagerly. “Look, Noct could go fishing, and I bet Iggy would love to try some of the seafood. And isn’t that a camping spot over there?”

He nudges Gladio with an elbow, grinning, and he looks like he belongs to this moment— blond and blue-eyed against the golden beach and crystal waters, dressed in the finery he borrowed out of Noct’s closet, gleaming camera held with easy competence in his hands. 

And Gladio would probably agree to go anywhere for one more moment like this one. 

“Excuse me,” someone calls, and Prompto turns around with the starshell he found on the beach still in hand. 

A young woman is bearing toward them, a man around the same age trailing a step or so behind. 

“I’m sorry, I hope this isn’t rude,” the woman says. “But I’m expecting a cousin of mine this weekend, and you’re the only people here I don’t know—“

“Um,” Prompto says, “that’s me, I think. You’re June?”

Her eyes light up. “And you must be Prompto! It’s nice to meet you! This is my little brother, Ace.”

“Younger by twelve minutes,” Ace says with a world of weariness in his tone, but he shakes Prompto’s hand with a smile.

Kindness seems to be the last thing Prompto expected, and he flounders visibly for a moment.

“And this is your date?” June asks, glancing at Gladio.

“Gladio Amicitia,” he says, offering a hand. Their eyebrows go up a bit at his name. “Prom and I are in the royal guard together,” he adds because he can’t help it, and their eyebrows go up a lot more.

But what really seems to impress them is Prompto’s camera. 

“We saw you taking pictures by the water,” Ace says, scrolling through the photos with Prom’s permission. “And you’re really good. The photographer Auntie Awful hired is a hack, so—“

June elbows him in the gut and he sputters.  

“I mean— fuck, Aunt Agatha. Sorry, Prompto, I didn’t—“

But Prompto is smothering a guilty-sounding giggle behind his hand, and Gladio is grinning outright, and the bride and her brother both brighten ridiculously when they realize the camaraderie they’ve found in two other people who openly dislike the elder Argentums. 

“I’ve never seen you at any of our family gatherings before,” June says as the four of them have lunch together. “Up until a little while ago I didn’t even know Auntie Awful had a son.”

“I’m not usually invited,” Prompto says, more focused on the picture of his plate that he’s taking for Ignis and less on the reaction his words get.  

Ace and June both look the way Noctis did when he found out Prompto was spending his sixteenth birthday alone.

“Well you’re invited from now on,” June says brightly, with a dangerous edge to her voice not unlike the dangerous edge to Ignis’ throwing daggers. 

Okay, Gladio thinks, these two can stay. 

That night in their fancy hotel suite, while Prompto is in the shower, Gladio picks up his camera. 

He pans through the photos, knowing Prompto won’t mind. They’re all impressive shots, the angles and the filters and the framing the work of a professional. 

Here’s the sunset on the water, the lights along the boardwalk glowing merrily, the resort a warm beacon in the pressing darkness, and Gladio’s face in soft focus. Here’s June laughing over a beer, and Ace scowling at a losing hand of cards, and June’s groom coming over with the expectant grin of someone who knows a good time when he hears one. Here’s the camping spot tucked away on the farthest end of the beach, and the cat they fed expensive resort food to, and the out of order sign on the chocobo rental stand. Here’s the empty fishing spot down past the pier, and the foamy surf washing up over the sand, and the glint of the starshell Prom found the second before he picked it up, and that first selfie they took, rumpled and beaming and squinting through the sun. 

And then, beyond those, the interior of the car and Gladio’s hands on the wheel. The anaks moving leisurely alongside the road. A road sign, the world around it a motion blur. The motel room, the rain on the window, Gladio caught in the act of pulling off his hoodie. The stairwell on their way up to their room, Gladio’s wet hair dripping down his neck, his expression attractive in profile. Another shot of the car, Gladio pushing his sunglasses up to check the map when the GPS lost signal. Gladio again, his eyes meeting the camera sidelong and a crooked smile on his face.  

The running water in the bathroom stops and Gladio puts the camera down where he found it, suddenly convinced he was looking at something he wasn’t supposed to. Harmless, though— Prompto loves taking pictures of his friends, always has. He’s shameless about showing them off. 

But...

A whole new world to see, precious memories to capture and keep, and Prom was looking at him?

Prompto’s mother approaches him once, before the ceremony.

Prom immediately goes stiff and the easy cheer bleeds out of him. Gladio drapes a protective arm across the back of his chair. 

“At least you were on time,” Agatha says by way of greeting. “You have an appropriate outfit to wear?”

“The prince’s adviser approves,” Gladio says mildly, before Prom can find his voice, “so you shouldn’t have a problem with it either.”

She looks surprised he spoke up. Prompto’s spine gains a little steel. 

It’s the first time Gladio’s had a face to face with her, but not for lack of wanting on his part. If Prompto’s parents were ever around, Gladio and Ignis probably would have raced each other to get to them first. There’s a lot to unpack, to demand, to accuse.

How someone like Prompto could have been left alone, left to grow up in an empty house and fend for himself—and how it shaped so much of the man he is now, faltering and uncertain when faced with things Gladio always took for granted—and how could you do that to him, how could you hurt him so consistently, how could you?

“I mean, you understand how impressive your son is, don’t you?” Gladio goes on, years of secondhand hurt simmering in his chest, a love that’s just as old rearing it’s head like a creature with teeth. “He’s twenty-two and a sworn soldier in the royal guard and a member of the prince’s personal company. He has dinner with the king regularly. The Marshal considers him an unofficial protege, not that you heard it from me. He’s the best shot in Lucis with any firearm you can think of, and he can take combat machinery apart and put it back together better than new, and he only started training when he was eighteen.”

He’s talented and funny and thoughtful and kind to a fault, he’d walk miles on two broken legs to help a friend, he puts everyone he loves before anything he needs, and he’s more than good enough to be your family, Gladio wants to say. 

“He’s a fucking treasure as far as I’m concerned,” Gladio finishes with a wolfish smile. “Anything you’d like to add?”

Apparently not, because Agatha leaves as abruptly as she came over in the first place. Gladio sits back in his chair again, feeling halfway vindicated. 

Prom says, in an odd voice, “Did you mean that?”

“I don’t subscribe to the concept of lip service,” Gladio tells him shortly. “You know how good you are, Prom,  it’s about time these people know it, too.”

“So you meant it.”

“Yeah, I meant it. I meant everything.”

“Oh,” Prompto says at length. But he leans into Gladio’s side again, and his expression is a complicated mix of wonder and disbelief and maybe hope and—

Resolve. Like he’s looking at a mountain in front of him that he’s decided to climb. 

“Remind me to talk to June before the reception,” he says a moment later. “I have a really stupid idea.”

Prompto is a bundle of nervous energy during the first round of toasts and speeches at dinner. He’s beautiful in the burgundy suit Ignis had tailored for him, slim fit with a long narrow tie— and his hair is loosely styled, an artful wave of soft sideswept blond rather than its usual energetic spikes— but he’s twisting his hands under the table and hasn’t even touched his food.  

And then June stands up at the head table and says, “My dear cousin Prompto asked if he could share some words with us, and of course I agreed. Prom?” 

Gladio gapes as Prompto takes a deep breath and stands up, so sharply the expensive dishes rattle. There’s a low murmur starting in the room, heads craning toward them. 

He makes it to the stage, and darts a quick glance at June as she passes him the mic. Whatever he finds on her face is reassuring; he turns to look over his audience. 

“Most of you don’t know me, and I’m sorry for taking up some of your family time. Except you’re my family, too, sort of, so I guess that’s alright. My name is Prompto Argentum, and it’s nice to finally meet you all.”

The crowd visibly warms to him, and it probably only has a little bit to do with the way June is hovering behind him protectively. There’s a scattering of applause and a few good-natured hoots. It makes him smile a little.

“So, um, I don’t really have a lot to say about the bride and groom, except that they’re nice and really good at cheating at card games and ridiculously photogenic together, but— I’m gonna have to send them a seriously nice present for inviting me to this thing.”

He takes a deep breath, shaking off the rest of his nerves.

“I didn’t have a date for the wedding, but I lied and said I did,” he announces clearly. “My parents terrify me and I was so sure this weekend was going to be terrible, but one of my best friends stepped in and saved the day. He’s always doing that. He’s a Shield, so it probably comes naturally, I don’t know. But he agreed to be my date, no questions asked, and he’s done so much for me, because he’s—he’s such a good guy. We’ve been pretend boyfriends for a month,” Prompto says with a soft, strangled laugh, “which is just downright stupid, when you consider that I’ve been in love with him since I was nineteen.”

Gladio feels like the breath was punched out of him, and he sits there frozen, unable to move or breathe or think beyond What

There’s no way

I’d have seen it, I’d have known  

Does he really mean—

But there are the pictures on his camera. 

There’s the way he kept wearing Gladio’s jacket, the way he pressed his face into the bouquet of marigolds to hide a fragile smile. The way he looked at Gladio when they danced, the open hurt in his face when Gladio started to kiss him and backed out, the apology in the diner when he shook and cried and didn’t want to lose Gladio’s friendship. There’s his voice in the dark of a small motel room, sleepy and half aware and so intimate. 

There’s Prompto, standing on a stage in his pretty suit to say—

“I thought I was pretty obvious about it. Noct always said I was. But I don’t have much family, and I was so scared I’d ruin the little one I made for myself if I— if I, you know, told him outright. I thought maybe he was just doing me a kindness and pretending he wasn’t seeing what was right in front of him, and that—that was okay. It was okay until it wasn’t okay anymore, and I think I hurt him a lot by being a coward, so I needed this moment, in front of all of you, where I couldn’t run away, to try to be as brave as he is. To tell him something I should have told him a long time ago.”

He lifts his eyes, and finds Gladio in the crowd. His mouth is trembling, his eyes too blue and too bright, but he stands his ground and says, “It was real. It’s always been real. I don’t know how to lie to you, Gladio. I’ve never had to before. If I had to try, I’m sure I’d be shitty at it, so here’s the truth instead. I love you, and I want to date you for real, and I want to go dancing again, and I don’t want you to ever walk away from me, ever, ever—“

It looks like there’s more he wants to say, and Gladio should probably feel bad about interrupting him, but it only takes a moment to rush to the stage and sweep Prompto into his arms and kiss the rest of the words out of his mouth. 

And it’s one more thing the books got wrong. There’s no fireworks, no electric buzz in his bones, no stars in their eyes— there’s just Prompto in his arms, closer than he’s ever been, and how good it feels to hold him. It’s nothing new and landmark and incredible, it’s just them, because it’s always been them, and they’re finally meeting in the middle of that quiet, comfortable room they wandered into years ago.

The forgotten crowd around them clamors, erupting into enthusiastic applause and wolf-whistles. Ace got ahold of Prompto’s camera somehow, and June is leaning into her husband’s side with a grin, and Prompto is shaking in Gladio’s hands. 

At least this time, Gladio made him cry for a good reason. The press of Prompto’s lips, the flutter of his damp eyelashes, the curl of his hands into the front of Gladio’s suit, his bright laugh when Gladio goes on kissing him—

it feels like a benediction. 

(Now)

“Are you ready yet?” Noctis demands as he storms inside, twenty-seven years old, preparing to take the throne in another year, and still a brat. “You’re not getting cold feet are you?”

He looks like he’ll warp-strike Gladio’s ass straight into the Infernian’s domain if the answer is yes. 

“I dare say Clarus would disown him if that was the case,” Ignis says, only partly joking, checking Gladio’s appearance over one last time. “Especially since he’s been waiting for this day since the moment Gladio officially proposed two years ago. Have they decided yet, Noct?”

“Clarus and Cor were about to get into it,” Noctis reports cheerfully, “but dad overruled them both. Since I’m the one officiating, he gets to do it.”

“Ah, to be king.”

The familiar banter is like a balm to Gladio’s frazzled nerves, and when it’s time to stand in front of a crowd it isn’t at all as bad as he worried it might be. 

Because Noctis is behind him, all done up in his most impressive regalia, and Ignis and Iris are beside him, and Ace and June are standing on the opposite side of the altar. And then Regis is walking Prompto up the aisle to where the rest of his small family is waiting, and Prompto is bright and beautiful in a white suit and smiling so wide.

He steps up onto the raised platform and reaches for Gladio’s hand, and they're finally here.

And whatever forever really is, whatever it means, it’s theirs.

”You with me?” Prompto whispers between vows.

”All my life,” Gladio says proudly.