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At least there’s cake. The only good thing about any of this.
Noctis leans on the balcony railing, listlessly stabbing the elaborate buttercream flowers with a dainty fork. They feel smooth and velvety on his tongue, just like real petals, filling his mouth with the rich taste of vanilla and a hint of rum. He wonders briefly how much he’d have to eat so he could get drunk off it and not have to suffer this lame evening anymore.
He should be used to it by now. Every gods-damned function at the Citadel always looks the same, after all. Or maybe they just keep getting worse. They’ve never been exciting to begin with, but he can’t remember being this bored even as a kid. It definitely doesn’t help that he’s not a kid anymore and can’t get away with taking a quick nap in a corner whenever he wants. Back then, they called it adorable; now, it would probably lean more towards scandalous.
He can’t help it, though. These people are exhausting. Just walking and talking among them drains him more than the most rigorous training sessions with Gladio. Are there any exercises to build stamina for social events? Maybe they’ve been focusing on completely wrong muscle groups. Smiling hurts his face, and his entire body feels tense like a bowstring as he strains his back and tries his best not to slouch. His feet ache from all the dancing and from these stupid fancy shoes. Ignis was right, he should have practiced more in them – should have practiced more in general. He’s spectacularly bad, and if he knows that, then it must be crystal clear for everyone else here. It would be hard not to notice. The ballroom is too bright, the dancefloor too big and too empty, even with all that crowd closing around like a noose. Everywhere he turns, there are eyes on him, watching, scrutinizing, judging. Counting his every misstep. Waiting for him to stumble.
The balcony is a small reprieve. The sounds spilling from the open door behind him are just loud enough to worm on his conscience, to remind him why he’s here and what he’s supposed to be doing. But when he looks ahead, all he can see are the royal gardens, still and silent under the star-studded sky. Noctis chews slowly on his cake as he takes it all in. The garden paths have been decorated for the celebration: long chains of tiny golden spots line the hedges and archways, twisting and tangling like a parade of glow-worms. It’s a soothing sight after the blinding glare of the chandeliers inside. The wind chilling him through his thin suit is a welcome change from the stuffy air. Noctis closes his eyes, trying to make the most of it before someone finds him here and drags him back. The drone of conversation fades in the background as he strains his ears for the music of the night. The leaves rustle softly. The water in the fountain below splashes against the polished marble. There’s a bird in the bushes nearby, its long, trembling notes piercing through the dark.
Noctis frowns, his eyes snapping open. That’s not a bird. To his knowledge, birds don’t sing the jingle from King’s Knight. He listens closely, leaning far out over the railing to scan the ground two floors down. And there it is again: a shrill, unmistakable whistle coming from the giant clump of hydrangeas. Noctis zeroes in on it. For a moment, he can’t see anything in the shadows; then, the hydrangea wiggles and sprouts a mop of spiked blond hair and one toned, frantically waving arm.
Noctis smiles, licks the buttercream off his fork, and throws it.
The pull of energy that yanks him forward almost makes him regret eating all that cake. He hobbles out of the warp, dazed, but before he can topple over, Prompto grabs him firmly by the shoulders.
“Careful there, bro,” he says, but the sweet concern is somewhat undermined when he hands Noctis the fork. “You almost took my eye out.”
“Sorry.” Noct tucks the fork into his pocket with a shrug. The motion makes Prompto take his hands away, and he misses their warmth instantly. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“Nyx saw me by the gate. I just had to promise him I won’t dance on the tables and seduce the nobles,” Prompto laughs, and Noct has to wonder if he means it in a cause-and-effect sort of way. He could certainly see that.
“I’m surprised he didn’t insist you go through with that,” he says instead. “But seriously, what’s going on? I didn’t forget we had plans, did I?” Gods, that would be another reason to hate this idiotic gala even more. The past two weeks were a hectic blur; he barely had time to hang out with Prompto at all, and half of that time his mind was elsewhere. He knows he has a good excuse, and he knows Prompto knows that too, but for a second he still feels like he got punched in the gut with an ice pack.
“Nah, you didn’t forget anything. We’re cool,” Prompto says quickly, and the knot in Noct’s throat loosens a little. “It’s just… Your backyard was on the news, you know,” he explains, with a sheepish smile and a jerky nod towards the fine web of lights across the lawn. “The night shots they showed looked awesome, so I was kinda hoping to take some of my own. Well, and maybe to see you.”
“Maybe?” Noct swats him lightly on the arm. “Thanks, dude. Nice priorities.”
“Hey, you were supposed to be busy!” Prompto sputters, tumbling into defense despite Noct’s obviously joking tone. He still does that sometimes, and it still hurts to see. “You’ve been swamped with this thing, I didn’t want to, like… get in the way or something.”
“You’re not in the way.” Noct looks at him firmly, as hard as he can in the darkness. He can’t make out much of Prompto’s face, just his bright eyes, catching the glimmer of the lights in the distance. He bumps at his arm again, letting his hand linger. “I’m glad you came. I was dying up there.”
“That bad, huh?” Prompto tilts his head back to stare at the lit windows, a row of bright patches carved out of the massive black shape of the Citadel. When Noct follows his gaze, he can just about see people inside, milling around or spinning past to the faint sounds of music drifting overhead.
“Yeah. It was torture,” he sighs. “They made me eat leeks at the dinner. There was green stuff in every dish and nowhere to dump it with all those musty old people around. And I couldn’t just leave it because it reflects poorly on the service if the host himself refuses to partake.” His impression of Ignis’s accent is so on point that Prompto whips his head around out of habit to make sure the advisor is not within earshot. They both snort with laughter, and both shush each other with ill-aimed pokes to the ribs.
“They played you, dude,” Prompto teases, his smile still threatening to burst into something louder and uncontrollable. “So that’s all you’ve been doing there? Just sitting around all evening?”
“I wish.” Noct makes a face, tapping one sore foot against the other. “I also had to dance later. Honestly not sure which was worse.”
“Aww, but dancing is fun!” Prompto perks up, ever-optimistic. “And you’re good at it, you always kick my ass at the rhythm games at the arcade!”
“It’s not that kind of dancing.” Noct rolls his eyes, smiling to himself as the two images collide and overlap in his mind. “It’s the dumb kind, where you turn around in one spot and your hands sweat a lot.”
“Really?” Prompto grabs him by the wrist and pulls his hand up to inspect it. “Nah, it’s not that sweaty. You’re good.” He pats his knuckles reassuringly, but doesn’t let go.
“Yeah, cause we’re not dancing. Duh.” Noct flicks him on the nose with his captive hand, but doesn’t try to retrieve it, either. The music swells above them, distorted by the distance, half drowned in the rustling of leaves and water. Prompto’s fingers are warm around his, twitching slightly, sending bolts of lightning down his veins with every brush of skin. In the back of his mind, Noct finds himself counting the beats, slow and steady. Much slower and steadier than his breaths.
“But… You know…” he goes on, as if his brain didn’t just freeze for a split second there, “I think… It would suck if you went to a ball and didn’t get to dance even once, right?”
“Huh?” Prompto looks about as stunned as he feels. His eyes dart between Noct’s face and their entwined hands for a couple times before he gets it. “Oh. Yeah. Man, I’d hate that.”
His small, hopeful smile brightens the night.
Gingerly, Noct guides Prompto’s left hand onto his shoulder; his own free hand comes to rest on Prompto’s hip, his thumb hooking easily into the belt loop. When he presses down, Prompto shifts under his touch, letting Noct steer him to the side as they take their first step together.
It’s not at all graceful. They bump into each other, knock their knees and take kicks to the ankles every two seconds. Noctis pulls Prompto along with big, sweeping steps that barely keep any rhythm. He almost can’t hear the music through the pounding of his pulse. Prompto’s chin slams into his shoulder as he stumbles to keep up, his nervous laughter washing warmly against Noct’s neck. He grips Noct’s sleeve a little tighter, smoothing the wrinkles out with his thumb.
“I’m not very good,” he mutters by way of apology after stepping on Noct’s toes for the fifth time within four steps. Noct just shakes his head and squeezes his hand lightly, pulling him closer.
“You’re the best I’ve danced with tonight.”
“Your shoes beg to differ.” Prompto peeks down between them, to where Noctis’s loafers have lost their shine and gained a few small dents in the black leather. Noct spares one glance at them and looks up with a shrug.
“Screw the shoes,” he decides, and kicks them off in two swings. Relief laps at his feet like an ocean wave. His soles tingle, the backs of his heels sting with chafes. The cold seeps through his socks, and now he’s got even more of an incentive to keep away from Prompto’s heavy-booted feet, but he doesn’t mind any of that.
They keep dancing, swaying slowly to the ghost of the music from above. With no shoes, Noct’s feet slip even more in the dewy grass. His arm tightens around Prompto’s waist as he desperately tries not to keel over. This close, he can see all of Prompto’s freckles; they stand out even in the dark, tiny golden specks scattered across his face like the fairy lights dusting the garden shrubs. There’s so many that they flicker before his eyes, and Noct has to turn away, pressing his closed eyelids against Prompto’s temple.
“Seriously, though,” he mutters, the tip of his nose brushing against the shell of Prompto’s ear. “You should have said something. If you wanted to come, I could have snuck you in.”
“It’s no big deal.” Prompto’s ear is burning hot against his lips, and Noct can imagine how red his face must be. “I didn’t even need to get in, really. I would have been fine just shooting through the fence.”
“But this is better.” Noct presses his nose into soft blond hair, breathing in the chilling scent of peppermint. It tickles as Prompto gives a shaky nod, timid but eager.
The music stopped a while ago, but they still don’t, even though it’s quickly losing all the fleeting resemblance to a waltz that was ever there. They turn slower and slower, like a wind-up toy, chest to chest and cheek to cheek. Maybe there was a little too much rum in that cake, because Noctis feels weightless and his head is reeling. Prompto’s hand smooths over his shoulder to cup the side of his neck. It wanders up, hesitantly, tracing the line of his jaw, and then Prompto swipes the pad of his thumb over Noct’s lower lip.
“You’ve got a little something here.”
Noct’s tongue darts out to chase his touch and tastes vanilla.
“Oh, yeah. The cake,” he mumbles, fighting to hold back the shiver that rattles his body, because along with vanilla there’s the faintest hint of Prompto’s skin caught on the tip of his tongue. “It’s pretty good. You want some?”
“Sure.” Prompto’s face is tight with anxiety, but there’s something burning in his eyes – just for a moment, before they slip closed and he leans in to leave a soft peck on Noct’s lips.
It’s shy, barely there, and gone too soon.
Their breaths mingle as Noct lets out a startled laugh. He’s still so close he can feel the warmth radiating from Prompto’s face, or maybe it’s just that Prompto is flushing really bad. Noct can feel the heat flooding his own cheeks and neck, like lava rushing down the slopes of Ravatogh.
“I meant I could go up and bring you a slice,” he says in a croaky voice. “But this works too.”
Prompto looks like he’s wishing to combust on the spot, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t.
“Right. Um. Of course.” He starts to pull away, his eyes boring holes in the ground. Noct reaches up, pressing a hand to the nape of his neck to stop him.
“I don’t mind,” he whispers, and almost leans in again, but a movement in the corner of his eye gives him pause. There’s someone up on the balcony. Even through the darkness and the distance, Noctis immediately recognizes the tall, proud figure of his father. He holds his breath, but it’s too late: they’ve been seen, he just knows. He can feel his father’s gaze all the way from there. There’s a brief moment when he’s sure their eyes meet. And then – he’s not so sure, but it looks like the king nods slowly before he turns and leaves, drawing the thick curtain at the door behind him.
Noct turns back to Prompto and he can see he saw that too, because he’s ghostly pale and hyperventilating a bit.
“Was that…?”
“Yep.” Noct takes Prompto’s hand, tugging him towards one of the garden paths. “Come on, let’s get out of here. You wanted to take photos, right?”
“Lead the way.” Prompto beams, his fingers lacing tightly around Noct’s. The night is still as they disappear in the shadow of the trees, away from the Citadel lights and prying eyes.