Chapter Text
They decide to head to Lestallum for the weekend. The people and the atmosphere is good—great, really—and it’s a thriving area for food truck owners. They’ve even made a couple friends in the food truck world, people they can count on when things go wrong even if, technically, they’re all in competition with one another.
Noctis is doing some prep work back in the truck, so it’s up to Prompto to grab the remaining groceries. He walks out of the farmer’s market with a whistle and a hop in his step, arms laden with bags full of fresh goodness, when a hand touches his shoulder.
“Want some help?”
His heart hammers out of its ribcage, but it’s only Dr. Sania. She’s one of their most loyal customers for their food truck, Little Pearl, and she even let them use her mothers’, frankly awesome, frog leg specialty that was a hit in Northern Duscae.
“Please,” says Prompto, and he hands her a good portion of the bags. “I lost the game, so it was my turn for groceries.”
Sania snorts.
They make it to the food truck with little problems—Noctis parked Little Pearl in the parking lot of Lestallum, and it has the most amazing view of the Disc of Cauthess Prompto has ever seen. Sania helps Prompto load the grocery bags into the truck and promises to return when it’s her lunch break. Noctis is already whipping up some of their daily foods—breaded fish and fries.
“I’m thinkin’ we could do some sliders,” Prompto suggests as he starts unloading items from the bag. Noctis hums in a way that tells Prompto he’s listening, but also not listening. “And I think a deconstructed fish taco?”
“Sure,” says Noctis.
They do prep in comfortable silence, only needing to say a few words here and there. They’re like some sort of well-oiled machine, knowing each other’s wants and questions by a mere tilt in body language. It’s awesome.
Prompto scribbles out their menu and prices onto the whiteboard and goes outside to set up. There’s a good crowd already waiting, so he lets them know that they’ll be opening within the next ten minutes. Little Pearl has something of a reputation—a good one, thankfully—because Noctis is a culinary demon when it comes to all sorts of seafood, and Prompto’s not half bad with the desserts they sell on the rare-ish occasions.
He can also make a mean slaw, too.
The work day goes by quickly—at some point, they close for a good hour and a half for both clean up and prep for dinner, and Prompto makes some mouth-watering dessert pies—and, before he knows it, it’s nearing ten, and it marks the time to pack up and head back home. Prompto organizes their receipts and tips, mentally calculating how much they made and what they can add here and there in their budget, and Noctis sweeps behind him with clean up, whistling with one of the live bands playing in the square.
“We did good today,” says Prompto.
Noctis smooches his cheek and smiles, brighter than the sun itself. “Hell yeah, we did.”
Once clean up was finished and the truck was in conditions that would pass all impromptu health inspections with flying colors, they grab a quick bite to eat with another food truck in the area—Galahdian Delights—before piling into the front of the food truck, the driving part, with sugar-sticky fingers.
There’s not much traffic on the highway, thankfully, but it still takes them a good hour and a half to get back to their little cabin. Because Prompto refused to spend their budget on hotel rooms and caravans unless absolutely necessary, and, also, vetoed Noctis’ suggestion that they sleep in the food truck (“We cook there, Noct, we can’t sleep there!”), they poured through various rent sites and advertisements until they found a cheap place that wasn’t too cheap where they were getting ripped off and taken advantage of.
While they couldn’t live in a place like Galdin Quay—because boy was that resort town expensive (and too close to Insomnia)—, the homes near Keycatriach HQ were right up their alley. The neighborhoods mostly comprised of Hunters, as it’s situated right next to an HQ base, so it offers a good amount of protection, and low rates simply because, well, it’s hunters. No homeowners want to be known as the one who ripped off a Hunter in need of someplace safe and warm to stay.
So they rented a small place from Dave Auburnbrie, one of the Head Hunters that became a regular of Little Pearl ever since Noctis and Prompto helped him out with some missing dog tags and other small requests; and when Prompto says small, he means small. There’s only one bedroom—which, really, that’s all they needed—and it’s a bit cramped, but it came with furniture and electricity and the like, so neither of them were complaining.
Noctis pulls into the driveway, and Prompto hops out with a jaw-breaking yawn. “Man, am I tired.”
“I think my fingers are fish stained,” says Noctis, and then he tries to smear said stained-fingers on Prompto’s face, cackling at his shrieked complaints. “Aww, does my baby not like fish grease?”
“Noctis, I’m going to kill you!”
Noctis snickers. “You won’t get very far.”
Prompto pouts and shoves him before he starts sprinting toward the front door, hollering, “Dibs on the hot water!”
“You little shit, get back here!”
Noctis tackles him into the living room, and he’s laughing so hard he’s crying, but that’s okay. Because they’re together, and they’re safe, and they’re alive, and, really, that’s all Prompto has ever wanted.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Don’t tell me we’re about to get inspected?” Prompto murmurs, but health inspections and the like are a normal part of food truck life that they’ve gotten used to. He opens the door, flashing a sunny smile, only to find his voice has dissipated.
“Iggy?”
“Fuck no,” Noctis says under his breath. Prompto would snort if he weren’t in so much shock.
“Good morning, Prompto,” says Ignis Stupeo Scientia, royal advisor to one Noctis Lucis Caelum. He adjusts the suit he wears, a nervous tell, and smiles kindly at Prompto. “May I come in?”
“Uh . . .,” Prompto looks behind him to see Noctis’ face become a humanoid thundercloud.
“Absolutely the fuck not,” hisses said thundercloud.
“Please?” Ignis tries again, and fuck, Prompto was always a sucker for quietly devastated expressions, and opens the door so Ignis can enter.
Noctis makes an ungodly noise by the stove. “I trusted you, baby, and this is how you repay me?”
“You know I can’t handle tears,” Prompto sputters, but he’s well-aware that most of Noctis’ bite is centered at Ignis rather than him. He shuts the door behind him, but not before he catches sight of a Glaive standing guard near the entrance of the parking lot.
Noct is gonna lose his shit, Prompto thinks.
Ignis observes their food truck, and Prompto does his best to smother his indignant emotions. It’s a modest space with up-to-date technology and equipment. They haven’t failed a single health inspection in the nearly two years they’ve been lugging Little Pearl around Lucis (sans Insomnia, for obvious reasons).
“Hello, Noct.”
Noctis’ face spasms.
Prompto watches the two of them like they’re some tennis match on TV.
“Get out of my food truck,” says Noctis. He flips another patty while Ignis recovers his bearings.
“Your Highness,” Ignis begins, and wow, Prompto’s gotta give him props for being so calm in the face of Noctis’ unfurling rage. “Please, I would only like—.”
Noctis points the grease-stained spatula at Ignis, and honestly shouldn’t look as threatening as he does in an apron that says kisses for the missus. It was on sale at a thrift store, and he lost the rock-paper-scissors game for the apron that said kisses for the mister. Prompto wears that one proudly.
“Get the fuck out of my food truck,” Noctis repeats. He looks ready to brain Ignis with the uncut potatoes on the counter.
Prompto decides it time to intervene before their workplace becomes a crime scene. He does not look good in orange jumpsuits, no sir. “Okay, okay,” Prompto says with a bright smile. “Let’s go about this like calm, rational adults—.”
“I am calm,” snarls Noctis.
Prompto gives him a look. “Sure, baby.” Carefully, he pushes Noctis’ hand down. “So, as I was saying, how about we make a quick lunch? Eat and then go from there.”
Ignis clears his throat, safe from death-by-potatoes. “I have no complaints.”
Noctis grumbles under his breath. He flips another patty. Prompto waits. “Whatever. Do what you want.”
“Wonderful!” Prompto claps his hands, and then turns to Ignis. “Would you mind cutting up those potatoes for me, please?”
All things considered; lunch prep goes fairly well. Prompto didn’t need to hide a body nor clean up bloodstains. Ignis didn’t try and discuss anything of their situation as he helped Prompto make their special fries and dipping sauce. Noctis made the sliders, and didn’t threateningly chop up the tomatoes, onions, or lettuce.
They eat outside the truck, on a bench a few feet away. Prompto ignores the presence of the Glaive. Ignis somehow eats messy sliders and fries like he’s eating with King Regis. Noctis looks like he’s barely resisting the urge to run everyone over with their truck, so Prompto keeps a hand on his thigh.
Again, he does not look good in orange. It washes out his freckles.
Once Prompto swallows his last bite and wipes his mouth, he side-eyes Ignis and says, slowly, “So . . . um . . ..”
Noctis leaps up, like a coiled spring, and trash crumbles in his grip. “I’m not returning to the Citadel—I don’t give a living fuck what Dad or the Council or whoever says.”
Prompto holds his face in his hands. “Calm and rational,” he rasps out. “What happened to calm and rational?”
Ignis remains calm. Points, for him. “I understand your concerns, your Highness—.”
“My name,” Noctis literally snarls out like he’s some rabid animal let loose in northern Duscae, “is Noctis. Not ‘your highness’ or ‘your grace’ or whatever fucking titles you all like to throw around. Noctis.”
Prompto yanks him back on the bench before he gets more heated. “Okay, let’s start over—why are you here, Ignis?”
Noctis scowls, simmering like an untamed explosion waiting to erupt. Prompto thinks everyone in the vicinity needs to visit a good, understating therapist with a patience similar to that of Lady Lunafreya.
“Your father is . . . worried,” Ignis says quietly. “We all are, Noctis—we just want you safe.”
Going good so far, Prompto thinks, and then taps the wooden bench. He does not want to jinx himself, no thank you.
“I am safe,” says Noctis. “I’m perfectly fine where I am.”
Prompto doesn’t speak. It’s not his place right now.
“I’m not going to be your king,” Noctis says tightly. His grip threatens Prompto’s bones. Ouch. “I’m not your prince anymore. Leave me, Prompto, and my truck alone.”
“Noctis—.”
“Please.” Noctis wilts. “I just want to live my life the way I want. I just want to have a choice—why is that so difficult to comprehend? To swallow? Just—please . . . leave me alone. I just want peace . . . that’s all I want.”
For a good while, Ignis doesn’t speak. He only stares at Noctis, something indescribable in his eyes, before he dips his head in a respecting nod. For the rest of the day, they’re left alone as they prep and serve the people who drift toward their truck. When they head into downtown Lestallum for a date, Prompto’s well-aware that there are Glaives shadowing them, but, well, he only grips Noctis’ hand tighter.
Later, back in their little home, Noctis trembles in Prompto’s arms. Prompto provides comfort as best as he can and does his best not to hate those in the Citadel.
He doesn’t think he succeeds, though.
In the beginning, the idea was just a dream.
A dream murmured in the dark between two fifteen-year-olds, who giggled and whispered beneath sheets of stepping outside the crown city and learning how to live a life they wanted. Prompto had a wicked mind for finances and the like, and Noctis could make seafood dishes and platters that made Citadel chefs cry in delight from the taste alone.
But it was just that: a dream.
They walked the paths carved for them with lungs full of ice until Prompto turned eighteen, and Noctis overheard discussions of marriage and a life spent with someone that wasn’t Prompto, that he didn’t love, wilted beneath the oppressive weight of a crown he didn’t want to have, and, basically, snapped.
Not in a bad way, of course (well, depending on just who you asked), but he discovered an ad of a food truck for sale in Hammerhead, and found that the owner wanted it off her hands. “My late wife mostly ran it,” she had explained. “So, really, I don’ want much for it but—just promise me you’ll do the girl justice, okay? An’ it don’ need much updatin’—just a new paint job, I reckon.”
Noctis agreed and bought the truck (with gil, of course, because he did not want Ignis pestering him about his purchases). He called Prompto in excitement, and talked about the plan, and Prompto—well, there was little Prompto could tell Noctis no to, after all.
(after all, who would believe that the crown prince and his boyfriend own a food truck?
no one, and that’s why it was perfect.)
Cor finds them next. Honestly, Prompto isn’t surprised at that. Just like how he wasn’t surprised that Ignis found them first.
They’ve settled down near Ravatough for the time being, and Prompto’s taking orders while Noctis cooks up a storm inside Little Pearl. They’ve hit a sort of stall in orders, but that’s normal for some moments; they’ve learned how to go to the flow in the Food Truck business.
“I’d like one of the fish tacos.”
“Alrighty,” says Prompto as he jots it down, and then glances up. He blinks, but he doesn’t drop the notepad or pen or make any sort of ungodly noise, but his smile certainly becomes shaky and unpronounced. “Um. Uh. That – that all?”
“Uh huh.”
Prompto coughs. “That’ll be, um, ten gil. Please.”
Cor shells over the money, and amid a pounding heart, Prompto reenters the food truck and announces, “F-Fish tacos for C-Cor . . . Leonis.”
Noctis, thankfully, doesn’t do anything reckless like leap out of the delivery window with the deep fryer oil. He looks like he’s considering it, but only starts assembling the order. Prompto puts the money in their little register and quickly jots down a receipt for Cor.
It takes little time for the order to be complete, and Noctis all but shoves the container in Prompto’s hands to deliver. Prompto wastes no time in handing Cor his food and receipt. They both ignore the way Prompto’s hands tremble. As Cor inspects the food and the truck, Prompto cleans up the side-counter thing on the side of the truck (there’s probably a name for it, but it escapes him right now). He fiddles with his notepad and hopes someone comes by to order.
They don’t.
“So.”
Fuck.
Oracle take the wheel, Prompto is not ready for this discussion.
“This all you guys do?” Cor takes a bite out of the tacos and makes an appreciative hum. “Drive around and make food?”
“Pretty much,” says Prompto. It’s a gross simplification of what they do, and Prompto’s kind of happy that Cor didn’t say that in front of Noctis because oh boy would he have to clean up blood then. “Um. You like the tacos?”
Cor just hums around another bite. Prompto will take that as a yes.
A small family of five drift forward, and Prompto practically jumps at the chance for a distraction. Cor looks at him in amusement as Prompto works his friendly charm on the oblivious customers (bless their souls) and takes their orders. The food comes out within ten minutes, and they even get a good tip. Score.
“I just have a question for you,” Cor says after a few minutes of watching Prompto nervously adjust their menu sign. Prompto tries not to squeak. “You guys don’t . . . sleep in this truck, do you?”
“No,” says Prompto. “We, uh, we have a house.”
From inside, Noctis shouts, “And you’re not allowed near it.”
Prompto barely withholds his snort at Cor’s raised eyebrow. They both know that Cor the Immortal will go wherever he damn well pleases. Cor only huffs in amusement and hands Prompto a tip of nearly a hundred gil.
“The taco was good,” says Cor.
The praise sort of makes Prompto want to become a puddle. “Th-Thanks, M-Marshal.”
Cor rolls his eyes. “Cor, Prompto.”
“Right – uh, Cor.”
Noctis snorts.
Prompto resists the urge to flick him off, but, all in all, the confrontation wasn’t bad—there was no blood shed, no one dragged Noctis out of the truck kicking and screaming, no one tried to, you know, kill Prompto for, like, running away with the prince. No one gave them any sort of deadline that they had to be back in the crown city within three weeks or whatever.
He shares a relieved look with Noctis. A tourist group from Galahd shuffles forward, and Prompto sends them a smile of sunshine.
Cor doesn’t leave the vicinity until they do, though.