Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.  

Chapter Text

They didn’t often head toward Hammerhead. For one, there were far too many Glaives off duty that like to hang around Takka’s Diner, but also because Insomnia was less than thirty minutes away from the garage and little town. Normally, they situated Little Pearl down by Longwythe, because it was a tourist hot spot due to the Peak and an important rest area for Hunters. To Noctis, that was as far as they were gonna get to Insomnia proper. But sometimes Takka wanted to try a new recipe with them, or Cindy would want to see if their truck needed any updating, and, well, neither Prompto or Noctis could say to no to them.

Therefore, it’s with great reluctance that Noctis pulls up beside the caravan inside Hammerhead. Already, he spots the distinct fatigues of his dads’ Glaives and scowls. Prompto pats his hand with a sympathetic smile and a, “It’s going to be fine, okay? I doubt your dad’ll get the time to come down to Hammerhead.”

“If you jinx us, I’m going to get a divorce.”

Prompto cackles and hops out of the passenger side. “Come on,” he says, and barely dodges the foot Noctis tries to implant on his ass, “let’s see what ol’ Takka wants!”

Noctis shuts off the truck with a grumble, sliding out of the truck and giving any and all Glaives a nightmarish glower. He entwines hands with Prompto as they walk into the diner, but the only reason he doesn’t turn right around and leave is because of the death grip Prompto has on his hands.

Under his breath, he says, “We’re getting a divorce right the fuck now.”

Prompto rolls his eyes. “Uh huh—then whose gonna do the budget? You?”

“Never mind,” Noctis says, quick to change his mind at the thought of handling the finances, and Prompto doesn’t bother smothering his snort.

King Regis sits by the bar with Clarus, but he doesn’t turn around at their entrance. Prompto knows that the man knows they’re there because Noctis steps around the counter to say, “I’m here, Takka, what d’you want?” and King Regis twitches like he’s barely holding himself back.

“Hey, boys, glad y’all made it here okay,” Takka says as he emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands off on a dishrag. “I was wonderin’ if y’all could do an errand for me?”

“No problem,” Noctis says, relaxing once it becomes clear Takka didn’t call them over because of his dad. He starts playing with some napkins on the counter before he makes a face. “Please tell me it’s not carrots again?”

Takka laughs.

Beside Prompto, a familiar blonde pulls out an unused stool and hops on it. “Hey, Takka, I’d like some fries, hun.”

“No prob, darlin’!”

Prompto smiles at Cindy. “Hey, Cindy!”

The mechanic reaches over and ruffles his hair. She, bless her beautiful soul, doesn’t comment on the obvious tension between Noctis and those on the other end of the bar. “How’s my favorite couple doin’?”

“Oh, we’re doing alright,” Prompto says and then says, to Noctis, “Stop threateningly ripping up that napkin, Noct, we’re in public.”

“I’m not doing anything,” says Noctis, but he continues to threateningly rip apart four napkins as if Prompto hadn’t said a word.

Cindy quirks an eyebrow and asks, lowly, “Everythin’ okay? Noct looks – stressed.”

“I’m not stressed,” Noctis claims right as he rips a long stripe out of the napkin. Even Takka raises his eyebrows at that as he checks over Cindy’s order of fries.

“It’s been a long . . . day,” says Prompto, and then laughs in a manner that is undoubtedly nervous and borderline hysterical. Noctis hands him a napkin.

A long few weeks, really.

After Ignis’ and Cor’s visit, the Glaive were aware that Noctis and Prompto owned the Little Pearl. It’s like they were always near the food truck whenever they stopped in a place. It made Noctis tense and twitchy, a coeurl in waiting for something to happen. But they never did anything except order food and give them tips and the like. Pelna, one of the older Glaives, even gave them pointers on a meat-and-fish skewer dish when they parked down in Old Lestallum.

But no one talked about Noctis returning to the Citadel. No one said a word about the matching rings on Noctis and Prompto’s fingers—then again, neither of them wore their rings when they worked, mostly of out fear it’d slip off while they were elbow-deep in prep work, so the Glaives might not have seen it. They said nothing about the life and responsibilities they had left behind in Insomnia. They just ordered food and generally looked like they were having a good time. Half of Noctis grew relaxed at that, but the other part was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Well, it’s dropping now, Prompto thinks.

“So . . .,” He slaps his palms down on the counter lightly. “What’s the delivery gonna be this time, Takka?”

“Ah—I just need some ingredients out by the crag,” Takka says. “Think y’all can handle that?”

Noctis smiles, but it looks more like a baring of teeth. “We’d be glad to take this request.”

Prompto thinks Noctis just wants to get into a brawl with the voretooth packs again. It’s a good thing Noctis can’t be disconnected from his Armiger or magic—not as long as his blood literally flows through his veins—and no one can control who he connects said Armiger to, because if it were different then they’d be having quite a time going on Takka’s or Dave’s little quests or when they decide to take a weekend off and pick through the forests for both ingredients and fresh game from the various lakes and fishing spots.

“I’ll update the truck for y’all,” says Cindy, bless her.

Prompto almost cries but settles for pressing his hand against his heart and teasing, “You’re after my heart, Cindy.”

Cindy laughs as Noctis throws ripped bits of napkins at Prompto. Takka mockingly scolds them for the mess, only for Noctis to start flicking them in his direction.

“Your boys’ outta control,” laughs Cindy.

King Regis is looking at them with what’s possibly the softest look Prompto’s ever seen on the monarch. But he doesn’t get up from his seat. He doesn’t call attention to himself. He’s just . . . content to watch Noctis be far more relaxed, far more cheerful, far more himself than he ever would be in the stifling confines of the Citadel walls.

After they clean up the mess Noctis made, they swallow down a quick breakfast. If this were a normal time, Prompto would head into the little corner store to stock up on potions and the like, and Noctis would stay in the diner to try and pry more cooking techniques and recipes out of Takka, but as Prompto steps out of the restaurant, Noctis is right at his heels.

“I don’t even want to know where Gladio is,” mutters Noctis as the store doors ding open.

“Now look who’s jinxing us!”

Gladio isn’t in the store with them as they stock up on their curatives. Nor is he there when they head back into the diner for Takka to give them a map of where the ingredients he wants are. The location is circled in red.

It doesn’t take them long to find the ingredients—it’s a mile away from the Peak, and like Prompto’s hunch insisted, there’s a pack of voretooths circling it that Noctis takes out with a somewhat disturbing relish. They return to the diner a little bloody, a bit grimy, but otherwise whole and unharmed, a good two hours past lunch.

“I want that recipe now,” Noctis tells Takka as he dumps the bag of ingredients on the counter. He looks wholly unbothered by the blood splattered on his cheek.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Once Noctis gets his hand on the recipe, they decide to open up the truck for a good few hours. After, of course, they shower and redress in the caravan. Thank the gods Prompto keeps a spare bag of clothing in the truck. “Might as well,” Noctis grumbles as he gets out the breading and the flour. The truck soon starts smelling like good, good seafood.

They make quick work of their menu and prices—they were only going to do simple things, mainly because they deserved the break and Prompto doesn’t want any culinary-related accidents (read: Noctis giving in to his impulses and trying to knife a Glaive). As Prompto heads out to set up the menu, napkins, and utensils, King Regis approaches.

Prompto, thankfully, doesn’t drop anything. He does, however, give Noctis a wide-eyed stare.

“Noctis . . . Prompto,” says King Regis.

Prompto’s a little lightheaded now, and it’s definitely not because of the summer heat. “Y-Your Majesty—hi.”

Noctis . . . looks like he swallowed a rotten lemon whole, but when Prompto gives him a Look, he says, begrudgingly, “Hi.”

For a moment, they all stand there. Quiet, gauging the other; Prompto keeps a fierce grip on Noctis’ hand, but he’s well aware that his husband will warp out of there with him at any moment. Then, King Regis exhales. He looks – older. Exhausted.

“I’m not here to lecture you or – to try and persuade you to come back with me,” King Regis begins slowly, quietly, but he holds their attention, nonetheless. “I have—I have only ever wanted you to find your own path in this world . . . and walk tall while doing it.” King Regis pauses, likely gathering his thoughts, and then smiles, “So . . . might I try one of those tacos? Cor sung your praises about it, as have a few Glaives.”

Noctis stares for a moment, eyes gauging how truthful his father was, before he slinks back to complete the order. Prompto’s not sure how to react to the turn of events—does he just . . . ask King Regis for the money or . . .?

His worries are for naught because Noctis leaves the truck to personally deliver the deconstructed taco and says, perfectly deadpan, once it’s in his dads’ grip, “That’ll be thirty gil.”

Prompto just about has a coronary (they only charge it for fifteen, Noct, hello!), but King Regis only laughs and agrees. They end up with a good thousand more gil from a tip (a tip), and he almost dies again.

So.

The marriage thing.

It was sort of an accident, really—they certainly hadn’t planned to get married, but it was easier for Noctis to go incognito under Prompto’s surname (there were a lot of Argentums’ out in Lucis, who knew?). As for the ceremony, it was a simple thing—a chapel in downtown Lestallum where all they did was say their vows and sign their names on the document once they exchanged the rings.

And the rings weren’t worth much, monetary wise, and it definitely wouldn’t be what Noctis would’ve normally had if he were back in Insomnia, but it was theirs, and it meant something to them.

But anyway. The proposal was kind of funny. They were in the kitchen going over a recipe they wanted to use for some seafood dish Noctis had saw floating on the internet. But somehow Prompto had accidently flung a piece of egg yolk at Noctis and, for a moment, they both just stared at one another. The yolk then dripped onto the counter.

Noctis went for the flour.

They ended up on a pile on the floor, a giggling mess but neither of them really cared about how much of a pain it’d be to clean up the kitchen. Prompto focused on calming himself down and noticed that Noctis was staring at him with an expression that made his mouth dry.

“What?” Prompto asked and patted his cheeks. “Something on my face? Other than, like, flour?”

Noctis laughed, a light sound that floated to the ceiling, and kissed him, so soft and quiet that Prompto’s bones melted right on the tile. “Gods, I want to marry you.”

And. Well.

It was history after that.

Prompto wakes one morning, some few weeks after King Regis casually dropped a shitton of money in their tip jar, to the scent of pancakes. Noctis is drooling on his shoulder and dead to the world, but that’s normal for a Sunday morning. See, once they started their business, they decided that they would take a Sunday off every other week to keep themselves from getting overwhelmed and stressed out.

But, anyway, the pancakes.

While Prompto can make a mean omelet, Noctis can’t cook, well, anything that hadn’t once been a part of the marine ecosystem, so they typically don’t eat pancakes unless they order takeout.

Prompto rolls out of bed and pads out of the bedroom on socked feet. His steps are quiet as he pokes a head around the corner, but he relaxes and banishes his gun at the sight, however odd said sight might’ve been, at Gladio and Ignis just . . . chilling in their kitchen.

Gladio’s reading a book on the table, and Ignis is cooking up a five-star breakfast course. Prompto blinks twice but decides that questions aren’t worth it when he hasn’t had his coffee yet. As he bustles around Ignis to make it, he can tell that they’re just observing him.

Prompto takes a seat at the table and inhales his coffee. “So . . .,” he says, and mentally pats himself on the back for not shrinking beneath their gazes. “. . . pancakes, huh?”

“Yes,” says Ignis. “They’re his High—Noctis’ favorite breakfast foods.”

I know, Prompto thinks. He sips his coffee instead.

He kind of wants to ask why they’re just . . . nonchalantly cooking up breakfast for them, but the bedroom door opens and Noctis’ all but warps down the hallways to the kitchen. “What are you two doing here?” Noctis asks.

Prompto takes another sip.

“Having breakfast,” says Gladio.

“Making breakfast,” adds Ignis.

Prompto doesn’t mean to, but he totally snorts into his mug. He used to think novels were dramatic for using phrases like ‘could cut the tension with a knife’ but gods, were they correct. Prompto’s just glad he can’t choke on it.

Noctis bristles. “Don’t you two have jobs to do?”

Ignis gives him a look. “You are our job, Noctis.”

Prompto pulls a plate of strawberry pancakes in his direction and takes a bite out of it. Yum.

“So, what?” Noctis huffs as he crosses his arms. “What do you want?”

Ignis fixes his glasses and shuts off the stove. “I . . . am aware that we left off on the wrong foot before, Noctis, but I propose an idea—business partners, for lack of a better explanation . . . I am able to aid the both of you with the financial and culinary aspects of your business,”— Ignis then tilts his head in Gladio’s direction— “And Gladio can help Prompto with the social aspect, seeing as he’s a, well, a people person.”

Noctis narrows his eyes.

“Just . . . think about it,” Gladio interjects before Noctis can say anything.

It’s the most awkward breakfast of Prompto’s life—and that’s counting the day he was introduced to King Regis as his sons’ boyfriend.

Prompto washes the dishes amid stilting silence, and silently prays that there won’t be any blood shed that morning. Stains on hardwood floors are a nightmare to get out.

“We’ll do this—but on some conditions first,” Noctis stresses when Gladio and Ignis perk up. “You’re not my shield or my advisor, okay? We’re just—owners of a food truck. Act like it. No one here knows I’m—knows I was the prince, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Fine with me,” says Gladio.

Ignis nods and hums thoughtfully. “I did hear you were using Prompto’s name as an alias.”

“I’m not using as an alias, Specs,” Noctis says, dryer than the actual desert that they live in, and flashes his ring. “We got married, obviously.”

Their expressions make Noctis burst into laughter, but that’s how Prompto knows that, no matter what happens from then on, they’re going to be just fine.