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“Will that be all?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“No problem. Your drink will be on the pick-up counter. Hello! What can I get ya?”
And so, the line moves forward.
Prompto only moves by grace of Noct’s hand on his elbow, too engrossed in the Insta feed he recently discovered. He hears Noct huff a fond laugh in his direction and chooses to ignore it with as much dignity as possible. Every now and then he turns the phone around to show him a particularly good photo—generally he nods in agreement, but sometimes he just shrugs—though for the most part their waiting is done in silence.
This coffee shop is not one of the more popular, mainstream ones, but it’s still pretty busy, especially for a Wednesday. It’s just before rush hour and just after schools have let out. They were on their way to Noct’s apartment when the craving for good, semi-decently priced coffee hit them.
So, here they are. Minding their own business, incognito and waiting.
“This is not what I ordered,” a shrill voice interrupts the dull murmurs of patrons, drawing everyone’s attention.
Prompto glances up to see a red-faced man glaring at the poor cashier with a double cupped hot drink in hand. The woman who’d been in the middle of ordering looks annoyed at being pushed back.
The cashier reads the side of the drink. “A Long Black, right?”
Somehow, his face gets redder. “No,” he shouts. “I ordered a fucking regular coffee. Not this foo-foo crap. Of course, a fucking Niff like you can’t even get a simple order right.” A wave of unease ripples through the café. Prompto sees a few people slip out the door, one of them blonde haired and fair. He, himself, shrinks behind Noct, a little ashamed at hiding, but not willing to gain the attention of the irate man. “Can you even speak Lucian? We need to fire all your asses and hire some Godsdamn patriots.”
“Sir,” the cashier says, visibly struggling to remain calm, “you don’t have to use that kind of language.”
“Like hell I don’t!” the man shouts back, leaning over the counter aggressively. Noct steps forward, but Prompto holds him back. Noct shakes him off too easily.
“Excuse me,” Noct cuts in, all prim and proper. He reeks of Royalty, but no one gets the hint. The angry man whirls around on him. The cashier sags in relief that someone stepped in. “A Long Black is way more expensive than a regular coffee. How come you didn’t notice you were paying more?”
“I expect them to do their job,” the man spits back. “I shouldn’t have to double check a simple fucking order.”
Noct taps his chin. “Or maybe you’re just an idiot who did, actually, order a Long Black and either didn’t like it or decided to be a racist asshole to this poor cashier.”
Prompto tugs on his hoodie. “Noct,” he hisses, eyes wide.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Someone who knows not all blondes are from Niflheim?”
That is definitely the wrong thing to say. The man lets out a wordless scream of rage and frustration and throws his drink directly into Noct’s face. Prompto tries to pull him out of the way, but he’s far too late.
It all happens in slow motion.
Mid-air the lid pops off. The lip of the cup smashes against Noct’s cheek as he tries to turn away. The hot Long Black—espresso and almost boiling water—splashes up over his skin, scalding his face all the way to his hairline, over his eye, and drenches over his bare throat. Already his skin is bright red.
Noct cries out at the contact, stumbles back into the arms of another patron. They catch him, fumbling at his weight, and they drop to the ground. His hands hover awkwardly over the afflicted areas, tears streaming from his undamaged eye.
“What the fuck?” someone shouts.
Prompto’s already dragging out his phone, dialing for the plainclothes that should be out on the sidewalk. Oh, man, they’re going to get so much shit for this later. He’s not sure if he’s thinking about him and Noct or the Crownsguard. He drops to his knees next to Noct, phone at his ear, staring at the way his skin is starting to swell. Someone grabs the angry man, holding him back, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to do anything, too busy staring at Noct in shock.
“Shit, shit,” the person holding Noct says. “Are you calling an ambulance?” she asks Prompto. She glances between him and Noct, wide-eyed and scared. “That doesn’t look so good.”
Prompto nods. “Yeah. I am.” He hangs up mid-word with plainclothes and dials for emergency services, using the code the Crown gave him that tells them this isn’t a prank call and really about the prince. “Fuck, Noct.”
Noct moans, heading rolling. He squints up at Prom with his good eye. “I’m never drinking coffee again,” he slurs. His skin is blistering.
He barks out a startled, half-hysteric laugh. “Like I believe that, buddy.”
The woman looks at them in horror. “’Noct?’” she repeats even as the Crownsguard bust into the building. “As is...Noctis Lucis Caelum? The prince?”
Noct grins up at her. “Caught me,” he says. “Best day ever,” he adds sarcastically.