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At sixteen, it has been universally agreed that Noctis must be a beta. At sixteen, he is already past the normal ‘presenting age’ for an alpha, and past a light consideration, it is assumed he will not be an omega as there hasn’t been one in the royal line for centuries (and who would rally behind an omega king? the people whisper, so weak willed and easily swayed by emotions).
This is good news; another beta King will be good for the people, a strong, steady hand to guide Insomnia through the war. A level headed, calm and thoughtful king – all the great qualities of a beta.
Unfortunately, this is not the case.
***
Noctis wakes the same as he does on every other day; he rolls out of bed, groggy and weary, grabbing whatever breakfast Ignis has prepared and left for him. It’s not until he’s standing in the bathroom staring into the mirror, that today, something feels off.
He studies his face, somehow different yet obviously the same. His neck feels a bit swollen, which is weird, but he doesn’t think on it too deeply; Noctis is no stranger to aches and pains.
He returns to the kitchen, picking up the leaf of paper wedged under the coffee pot. Glancing at the clock, Noctis groans. Training with Gladio starts in twenty minutes. Fuck.
He dresses as fast as he can be bothered to, throwing out different shirts until he finds one that doesn’t feel gross against his skin. He’s sweaty and hot, and each time he goes to leave, a new wave of nausea washes over him and he returns to the bathroom to kneel in front of the toilet. He deeply curses whatever he’s eaten to make him feel this way, ignoring the strange pressure pooling in his gut and the tightness in his chest.
Forty-five minutes later, and feeling not even a tiny bit better, Noctis arrives at the training hall, pale and clammy.
He throws down his gym bag, suddenly aware of the overpowering scents in the room. It’s jarring, considering the room is almost empty and cleaned daily. Every breath tastes like a hundred sweaty Glaives, a hundred sweaty alpha Glaives, he notes, unsure of why he’s now able to make that distinction.
Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he walks to the benches against the back wall where Gladio is sitting, apparently too invested in whatever romance book he’s reading to bother looking up.
Noctis stands in front of the alpha and clears his throat.
Gladio licks his finger and turns a page, pointedly ignoring him, and very clearly pissed off. Noctis waits impatiently, with half a mind just to up and leave. Fuck training, fuck everything, his headache is seemingly getting worse by the second.
“So you did decide to show up after all,” Gladio says eventually, sighing and dropping his book to the bench, “I thought we were past all this Noct, you gotta start taking your training more seriously.”
Noctis bristles, “I feel like shit, at least I bothered to turn up at all.”
Gladio stands, face setting in a glare. Noctis is then overwhelmingly aware of how tall Gladio is, how he towers over him in every sense. He’s never been afraid of Gladio… but right now he feels a jitter of nerves that he can’t explain.
Gladio summons his blade and Noctis takes a step back instinctively, “Get your shit together Noct, I’m not going easy on you today.”
Noctis rolls his eyes, bored already of the alpha’s dramatics. He throws off his hoodie and summons his sword, slipping into a combat stance.
Gladio is on him a second later, blade swinging down with the force of a fucking behemoth. Noctis parries but Gladio is faster, sweeping his legs out from under him and landing him on his back. Noctis goes down with a grunt, pain jolting up his spine. He glares at the ceiling, indignant.
“Not good enough,” Gladio shouts (why does he always shout), swinging his blade, “Up.”
Noctis huffs irritably and pushes himself up, driven into action by some unseen force that trembles in his bones. He summons his blade back in his own leisurely time, hoping the feeling will subside. The room is too hot, the air too thin. His head swims suddenly, blurring the marble walls of the training room into a dark smear of colour.
“Ready?” Gladio asks, though he’s already taking a step closer, his stupidly large blade on its way to smacking Noctis straight across the training hall. Again.
Gladio comes at him just as fast the second time, and Noctis can barely move out the way in time, his reactions sluggish and mal-coordinated.
Their third bout ends as quickly as the first two and Gladio once again sends Noctis flying across the room.
He lands on the marble, hard, rolling with the force until he’s sprawled out, face down on the floor. Groaning pitifully, Noctis pushes himself onto his back and presses his hand to his belly, wheezing through each breath. There’s pressure, everywhere, like he’s being sucked into a vacuum and all he can smell, sense, feel, is stupid Gladio.
Gladio looms over him, his eyes wide and suddenly gold-tinged, “Noct…”
Noctis glares up at his shield through his sweaty fringe, bares his teeth instinctively though he’s not sure why. Gladio discards his sword, sending it back to the aether and drops to his knees beside Noctis. He looks worried, but Noctis can smell his arousal as he gets closer. It sets him on edge and beckons him closer in one confusing lurch of emotion.
“What are you doing,” Noctis hisses, suddenly anxious to be on his back in Gladio’s shadow, “I’m fine, just back off.”
“You don’t look fine,” Gladio says. His eyes roam over Noctis’ form and his hand hovers next to Noct’s side, uncertain.
“What are you doing…” Noctis asks again, softer, watching with wide eyes as Gladio crawls over him on all fours, eyes hazy. He resists the urge to lean up and bury his face against the alpha’s neck.
“I don’t know... I just… Noct you smell so good…” Gladio’s hand rests gently on Noctis’s hip and the touch is electric, setting a fire alight in Noctis’ veins that washes away all the ache.
Noctis breaths him in, his scent somehow so much stronger than it's ever been. Alpha. He reaches up to touch Gladio’s neck, fingers pressing to his scent gland, dazed and unsure. Gladio leans into the touch, a purr building in his chest that somehow vibrates through Noctis’ entire body.
“Omega,” Gladio growls, leaning down to nudge Noctis’s head back and lick over his throat possessively.
Noctis moans, unable to process anything but the figure above him. He pulls Gladio closer, driven and instinctual as Gladio moves between Noctis’ legs, pressing his hips down in one fluid motion.
A sound slips from Noctis’ lips that he’s never heard before, a soft whine, so needy and desperate he’s almost embarrassed. He spreads his legs eagerly; he’s never been so horny in his entire life. Gladio reacts to it instantly, grabbing Noctis’ jaw and leaning down like he’s going to kiss him. Noctis holds his breath in his throat, eyes slipping closed as he leans in.
He wants this, he needs this, he-
In the back of his mind, Noctis clocks the sound of the training room door open, pinging some muffled alarm bells in his brain. Ignis’ shout cuts through the fog in his mind, throwing him back into the training room with the clarity of being drenched in ice water.
“Off! Off!!” Ignis shouts, pulling Gladio away by the scruff of his shirt, his fangs bared, “Get out!”
Noctis gasps the fresh air, no longer saturated with Alpha scent and feels the panic welling up inside him like a tidal wave. He heaves his next breath, scrambling to get to his feet. Pain shoots through his stomach a moment later, forcing him to drop to his knees. The tell-tale rush of slick down his thighs confirms it – he’s going into heat.
Ignis rushes back to his side, his hand pressed to Noctis’s forehead. He speaks, but the words are muffled and twisted, a mumble at the back of Noctis’ mind. The pain only intensifies, and despite his best efforts, unconsciousness takes him and the room fades to black.