Chapter Text
The thick, metallic smell of blood is still lingering in Noct's nose when he wakes with a gasp, eyes flying open, wide and startled as he looks unseeing around him. It takes several minutes for the rapid beating of his heart to settle as his gaze gradually focuses on the surroundings of his bedroom, the realisation that he'd had a nightmare slowly drifting into his mind and chasing away the fear there.
He lets out a tired breath, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. Dreams of the Marilith aren't anything new; he's been dealing with them since he first woke from his coma. But though they've come less frequently over the eleven years since the attack, the intensity of them has never faded, and every time he wakes from one he feels the horror of that night as fresh as if it just happened.
There's a candle on the small round table next to his bed, along with a lighter, and he leans over and catches the flame to the wick, letting the light scent of lavender carry away the sickeningly sweet metallic odour that's still clinging to his nostrils, so heavy he can taste it. Then he feels around under his pillow, drawing out the little Carbuncle totem after a moment, clutching it tightly in his fist, taking comfort from it. He's never quite been sure if that adventure with the little blue fox had been real or just a fantastical fever dream, but either way thinking of his guardian friend calms him, relieving the worst of his nightmare-induced distress so that he can get through his day without the upset mood overwhelming him.
A few minutes later, the obnoxious noise that is his new phone's default ringtone suddenly shatters the peaceful quiet of the morning, and Noct groans, reluctantly letting go of the Carbuncle totem to grab it and answer. It's Ignis, of course, because today is a day where he has to be advisor before boyfriend. "I'm awake, I'm up," he mumbles into the phone, though a yawn halfway through somewhat belies those words.
"Are you? You sound rather not awake still to me," Ignis says, and there's a hint of accusation to his tone, rather than the teasing Noct might get on a normal day. He's already stressed. Great.
"I might have just woken up," he admits, hoping that his boyfriend will decide there's not enough time for a lecture. He'd reminded Noct several times yesterday to be sure and set an alarm to wake him up with plenty of time this morning, and yet he'd still failed to do so.
Ignis sighs, but thankfully does skip the lecture. "I'll be round in an hour to pick you up. Please be ready and waiting for me, Noct."
"I will," he promises, and then blows out the flame on the candle before sliding out of bed, heading to the bathroom to take a quick shower, ignoring the twinges of pain in the knee that had never quite recovered from the Marilith's attack. He'd had a hard training session yesterday, and it's still a bit stiff and sore, but nothing the shower won't take care of.
His thoughts stray as he grabs a towel, annoyance flaring when he thinks about the day he has looming before him. The Royal Museum of Lucis is opening today with a new exhibit, displaying a collection of various treasures from the past kings and queens of Lucis. Stuff like fancy ball gowns, old jewelry, battle armour... even previous crowns, which Noct finds weird, because shouldn't they all use the same one? But Ignis had explained, with a patient but exasperated tone that says Noct should already know this, that some previous rulers with particularly picky tastes had commissioned new ones to be made specifically for them. Or any time a crown got stolen or damaged somehow, which happened more than a few times, a new one would have to be made.
Whatever the reason, he's never been one much for history, so the exhibit holds no appeal for him. But it's a big deal to most of the citizens of Insomnia, as the majority of these treasures have been locked away in the Citadel for their entire lives. This is the first time in over one hundred years that it's going on display, which means his father is expected to be there to open the exhibit and give a grand speech and explain some of the history of the more prominent pieces and then stand around as a million reporters all clamour to take his picture and yell at him in hopes of personalised quotes.
Which he understands, but what he doesn't get is why he is also expected to be there. He has nothing to do with this exhibit and knows only bits and pieces of the history (to the eternal shame and consternation of both Ignis and his father, not to mention his childhood tutor and most of the Council), and he's not going to be making any speeches or answering any questions. He won't be doing anything except standing around and looking pretty for the pictures, and he dreads it. He doesn't like the attention or the crowds, and with his morning already off to a sour start, he can't imagine the upcoming obligation improving it.
He hopes that the hot water of his shower will help soothe his annoyed mood, but any calm he manages is ruined when he stumbles getting out of the tub, banging his bad knee into the hard ceramic. "Fuck!" he swears as tears of pain prick at his eyes. He grits his teeth and finishes stepping out, drying himself quickly before lowering himself to the closed lid of the toilet, his knee throbbing in agony.
"Fuck," he says again, more quietly this time, and takes a few deep breaths as he looks at it. It's already swelling, and he knows it's going to bruise later. He's just made his day that much harder. Letting out a sigh, he carefully eases himself back up, putting as little pressure on that leg as possible, and limps to the bedroom to get dressed.
He pulls on the suit Ignis had gotten ready and hung in his closet days ago, making a face as he buttons the shirt. He's had to wear suits his whole life for various royal events, but he's never come to appreciate them the way Ignis has always sworn he will. They make him feel too grown-up and adult, like the king he's meant to be some day, and even if he's come to terms with it now, he still doesn't like the reminder that being king will mean his dad is gone.
Draping his jacket over his arm once he's got his shirt and trousers on, he leaves his room and limps down the hall to the kitchen. He needs ice for his knee and something to shut up his growling stomach, and he doesn't have much time left for either before Ignis shows up.
Breakfast first, he decides, when he gets to the kitchen and the clock on the oven tells him exactly how little time he has left. He tosses his jacket at the dining room table, and then pulls some eggs and leftover ham out of the fridge, deciding an omelette will be quick and easy enough. He's no cook still, but Ignis has somehow managed to teach him a few basic things that he can make without burning the apartment down, or ruining all the pans.
He gets the eggs started, and then chops the ham up quickly, trying to ignore the growing pain in his knee. He can put ice on it as soon as he's sitting down and eating. He tosses the ham on top of the eggs, folding them over in half and leaving the omelette to finish cooking. He gets some orange juice out of the fridge, pouring himself a glass, but right when he's taking a sip out of it, he feels his knee trying to give out, making him stumble as he catches himself against the counter, dropping the glass and splashing juice all over his shirt.
Noct groans as he leans heavily against the counter, staring down in disbelief at his stained shirt, already hearing the lecture Ignis is going to give him. Really, he knows better than to get dressed before eating. He should have put on boxers and an undershirt to eat, and then gotten dressed. The pain's clouding his ability to think, and maybe his desire to have this day done and over with is too.
The smell of burning eggs reminds him that his omelette's still in the skillet, cooking merrily away, and with a second groan he turns around, hobbling the couple steps to the stove to turn off the burner, careful to step around the broken glass and juice all over the floor—that will have to wait until later. He pokes at the omelette with the spatula, but it doesn't look too badly burnt, so he decides it's edible. It's not like he has time for anything else anyway. He slips it on a plate, and then grabs an ice pack out of the freezer, carrying both over to the table. Setting the ice against his knee, he holds it there as he eats fast, ignoring the burning cold sensation.
Once he's done, he starts to leave both his plate and the ice pack at the table, but Ignis' voice echoes in his mind, chastising him for not cleaning up after himself, so he reluctantly carries his plate to the sink and rinses it, tossing the ice pack back into the freezer before he heads to his room to find a new dress shirt. He forces himself to walk normally down the hallway, even though the pain's still quite great. But he knows he can't show any hint of a limp at the museum today, not in front of the media, so he might as well get used to it now.
Ignis shows up when he's in the middle of attempting to iron the third shirt, his attempt at the second one having ended with an iron-shaped mark down the middle of the back. "You're not ready," he says flatly. "Honestly, I don't know why I'm surprised by this."
Noct frowns, setting the iron down, ignoring the sting of hurt he feels at the words. "It's not my fault," he grumbles.
Ignis gives him a look of polite disbelief, arching one eyebrow elegantly. Noct hates when he does that; it makes him feel like a small child caught out in an obvious lie. "No?" Ignis says. "So it was someone else who ignored all of my reminders to set an alarm and slept in late this morning?"
Well, he can't really refute that. Maybe it's a little his fault. But if everything wasn't determined to go wrong this morning, he would have been ready still. Ignis will tell him he's making excuses, though, so he stays silent, lowering the iron to his shirt again.
"And why are you ironing a shirt?" Ignis asks, his nose wrinkling in displeasure. "I already had one washed and pressed for you."
Ugh. He tries not to hunch in on himself, feeling even smaller. "Spilled orange juice on it," he mumbles, keeping his gaze on the shirt as he smooths the iron over it.
Ignis lets out a loud sigh, and Noct doesn't have to look to know that his boyfriend will be pinching at his nose beneath his glasses, trying to keep his calm. Ignis has remarkable patience, especially when it comes to him, but he knows that he's dropped the ball this morning—he's nineteen now, nearly an adult, and these are the kind of basic mistakes he should be long past.
"Sorry," he mutters, finally daring to glance up. Ignis looks a little annoyed, but thankfully not truly angry with him, his face softening slightly at the apology.
Shaking his head, Ignis steps away, towards the kitchen. "No matter. Judging by the smell of burnt eggs in the air, am I to assume you've not eaten?"
"No, I ate. They weren't that bad."
"Good. What—Noct. Please explain why is there broken glass and orange juice all over your floor."
He winces at the exasperation that returns to Ignis' tone. "I dropped the glass when I spilled it." He doesn't want to mention his knee—it's his own stupidity that he hurt it, and he doesn't want his boyfriend to fret over it when he can't do anything for it right now. Over the counter painkillers aren't enough to ease the pain, and the prescription ones he has for the bad days—usually after an intense training session—leave him with side effects he'd rather not have to deal with in front of the media. He'd ran out of his salve yesterday, and there isn't enough time for Ignis to massage it and help him through his usual physical therapy exercises.
"And you couldn't take three minutes to clean your mess?" Ignis asks, sharp irritation lining every word. He disappears behind the counter as he bends down to deal with the glass, but his scolding doesn't stop. "Honestly Noct, you're nearly twenty. You should be better at taking care of yourself at this point. I thought we were past such ridiculous irresponsibility by now."
He bites at his lip as he abandons the iron again, deciding the shirt's good enough. The harsh lecture stings, more so because Ignis isn't normally so blunt. He's right, but he's usually much nicer in the way he says things. It makes Noct worry that perhaps Ignis is finally tired of him and all his shit. With as much as Noct's put him through the last four years since moving out of the Citadel, having to constantly clean up after him and take care of him and deal with him in all his moods and through the bouts of depression, he often feels like he's waiting for the day when his boyfriend finally decides enough is enough.
He pulls the shirt from the ironing board, slipping it on and buttoning it quickly. Ignis straightens up as Noct moves towards the dining room table, giving him a disapproving look. "That shirt still has wrinkles."
Trying to shove down the spark of annoyance that ignites—is there anything he isn't going to be critical about today?—he shrugs, reaching for his suit jacket. "There isn't enough time to do it properly."
"We'll make time," Ignis snaps as he throws away the big pieces of glass he'd picked up. "Put it back on the ironing board and go finish getting the rest of you ready. And do your hair properly, don't simply run a brush through it once and declare it fine. We can't have you looking anything less than your best in front of the press. Astrals know I'd never hear the end of it from the Council."
"Yeah, Astrals forbid I have a single hair out of place," Noct mutters, rolling his eyes. Despite the ice, his knee still hurts way too much, and it's making it harder to let Ignis' nagging roll off his back, his mood rapidly becoming grumpy as his fears that his boyfriend is fed up with him rise. The fact that Ignis is dating him should reassure him, but he's found that in the six months since starting this relationship, they've only gotten worse. He doesn't feel like he's good enough for Ignis, and soon enough Ignis is going to realise it too.
"That attitude won't serve you well today, so you may as well lose it now."
It's tempting to bite back with more snark, but he doesn't want to start an actual argument. The day is going to be trying enough without adding that into the mix. So instead he keeps his silence, and goes to do what Ignis says.
* * *
There's already a huge crowd of people gathered when they pull up to the museum, and Noct swallows as he looks out the window at them all. The museum isn't set to officially open for another hour, but there's already a line forming at the doors, wrapping around the block, and he can see several reporters milling about the front plaza, snapping pictures occasionally. "There's no way this many people care about some ancient royal junk," he says, trying to ignore the sick fluttering that's started up in his stomach.
Ignis glances at him through the rearview mirror, his face pinched tight in disapproving irritation that still hasn't faded. "This is a one in a lifetime chance to see a big piece of Insomnia's royal history," he says, reproval in his voice. "And I expect many people are here simply to listen to your father; His Majesty doesn't give too many speeches these days."
"Yeah," he agrees, the fluttering in his stomach deepening. His dad's health is on a slow enough decline that he probably still has years left, but the toll the Wall has taken on him is obvious, and it's becoming more and more of an effort for him to leave the palace. Noct can't remember the last time he's given a public speech that wasn't simply televised from the Citadel.
They go around to the back, parking and making their way to a side entrance usually intended only for employees. Despite that, there are still reporters gathered, and Noct ducks his head as Ignis pushes him through the small group, staying quiet as his boyfriend responds with "no comment" to the questions tossed their way. They're not even questions about the museum, or the exhibit—they're about his dad, and his health, and about how Noct plans to rule when he becomes king.
It angers him. His dad's not shown any sign that he's dying, but already they're circling like vultures, waiting for him to keel over so they can get their piece before anyone else. They give no consideration to the fact that Noct's going to lose his father, that the very idea of it still makes his throat close up and choke him with grief, his chest pulling so tight he can't hardly breathe. No, to them it's simply a chance at getting a scoop, a chance at being the first person to announce to the rest of the world that the king is dying.
He wonders sometimes if they even see him and his dad as human.
His dad gives him a tired but genuine smile once they make it inside, and Noct feels his stomach clench even more at the sight of him. He can see the lines of pain etched into his dad's face, the faint grimace he gives every time he takes a step, leaning heavily against his cane. It makes him wonder how bad he'll be in the future; his knee is already messed up, how much worse will having to maintain the Wall make it?
"You look nice," his dad says quietly as he comes to stand beside him.
He scratches at the side of his neck, feeling awkward. He's not used to sincere compliments from anyone other than Ignis. "You too," he finally mumbles, and feels his face go red as his dad gives a gentle chuckle.
"I'm glad to have my son's approval."
That little exchange turns out to be the only real chance they have to talk for the rest of the day, as they're soon whisked away and prepared for the photo op that's planned for later, and briefed by the museum staff on what they're meant to do. Noct's only instructions are to stand there and smile, and to hold up each specific artifact as his dad talks about it. Thankfully, most of the pieces are considered too delicate to handle modern camera flashes, so photography is forbidden during the presentation, with everyone being strictly checked beforehand, meaning he won't have to worry about pictures of him grinning like an idiot winding up online.
Once the event actually starts, the day drags on, each minute ticking by far too slowly. There are so many people crammed into the room, making it sickeningly hot, and he feels uncomfortable with the amount of eyes on him. The nervous fluttering in his stomach hasn't gone away, and he can feel sweat trickling down his back, making his skin sticky. More than one person has clearly skipped out on deodorant, their sour stench wafting up to him and making him wish he could wrinkle his nose.
And even though he's not moving around, just standing and putting weight on his aching knee is enough to aggravate it, making the pain grow worse the longer he stays on it, and he's worried that it's going to buckle and give out on him before this terrible day can end—that certainly would wind up on the internet, pictures or not. He does his best not to seem like he's fidgeting, but he can't help shifting every so often, trying to redistribute his weight before he falls to the floor in an embarrassing heap. Unfortunately, all that does for him is earn him Ignis' ire, his boyfriend looking up at him from the back of the crowd and glaring at him. He mouths something once that Noct can't actually read, but is pretty sure means "stop moving!"
Nearly two and a half hours later, his dad finally stops talking, and they're allowed to leave, the museum staff escorting them to the employee break room to freshen up before they're taken to the photo op. Noct sinks into the closest chair, gratefully taking the bottle of water that's handed to him, gulping down half of it in one go. He's got a headache from the bright lights, a dull pounding above his left eye that makes him feel vaguely sick. His knee's screaming, and he wishes now he'd taken his prescription meds for it, side effects be damned. It hurts, and he wants nothing more than to go home and take a pill and curl up in bed with Ignis holding him until the pain abates enough for him to sleep.
However, even if he could go home, he's not sure that Ignis would cuddle with him right now. Currently he's looming over him, arms folded across his chest as he frowns down at him, and Noct wonders what he did to make Ignis be irate with him for this long. Surely he isn't still salty over his morning mishaps. "Be thankful this event wasn't being broadcast or recorded, because your behaviour was more like that of a small child," Ignis says. "Is it so hard to stand still for a couple of hours?"
Noct gives him an incredulous look, his own forgotten irritation rising once more. "Are you serious, Specs? I'm not a robot, I can't stand in the same spot for two hours. And I didn't move that much. Lay off, would you? Pull the stick out of your ass and chill out."
"Boys," his dad says, his tone sharp and reprimanding, and it works to chastise them sufficiently, both of them going red as they fall quiet, Ignis murmuring a soft apology to his dad.
Noct finishes off his water, and then they're being dragged off again, this time to be mercilessly photographed by the media. The bright lights and the constant flashes of cameras make Noct's head worse, the pain sharpening until he can hardly focus on anything else, save for the still present pain in his knee and the growing nausea in his belly. He can't let on, though, so he keeps smiling and does his best to hold back the scream to be left alone that he wants to let loose. He should have known from the moment he woke up from a nightmare that this day was going to royally suck—and it's too bad Ignis is mad at him, because he'd probably appreciate that bit of wordplay.
An hour later, that's done too, but he's still not free to go—the museum has catered lunch from Rei's Chicken as thanks, and even though he's not sure that lunch from a fried chicken place is classy enough to be all that important, it still seems rude to skip out. Ignis would probably murder him for it, if nothing else. He takes the smallest piece of chicken he can find and nibbles on it, his stomach too upset to eat properly, and makes polite, pointless conversation with the museum staff that approach him.
It's only another hour, but it feels like ages before he's finally climbing into the car to go home, dodging yet more reporters hoping to catch a last picture. He leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, trying to silently will all his pain away. He's still thinking about curling up with Ignis, and he wants to speak up and apologise, but he can sense his boyfriend's irritation with him hasn't completely faded, so he stays quiet, not sure it would be well-received.
Ignis doesn't get out of the car when they arrive at his building, so Noct goes up to his apartment alone, his heart heavy. Apparently he really has gotten on Ignis' last nerve today. He lets himself in tiredly, stumbling through the doorway. He slips off his shoes, and that's when his knee finally gives out, the pain flaring as he crumples gracelessly to the floor of his entryway.
He grabs at it, grinding his teeth together as he breathes through the pain, allowing himself a single whimper since no one's around to hear it. He wants to go to the kitchen and get his medication and then collapse on the couch for the rest of the night, but right now he's not sure he could even tolerate crawling. Instead, he tries massaging his fingers into the skin, around the kneecap, feeling how swollen it still is. It's definitely bruised, too, his flesh sore when he presses into it.
His phone chimes with a message a few minutes later, and he reluctantly lets go of his knee to wrestle it from his trouser pocket, checking the screen. It's Prompto. hey u back yet? when can u meet me? u didnt forget did u lol.
"Shit," Noct swears, groaning. He did forget. He'd been busy on Prompto's birthday a few weeks ago and couldn't spend the day with him, so he'd promised to hang out with him today instead, the first day they both had free together—or at least he'd thought so at the time, not realising he'd be required at the stupid museum opening, and especially not so early. Who wants to be at a museum at nine in the morning?
He'd almost cancelled and rescheduled when he'd found out, but he'd already felt bad for missing his best friend's actual birthday, and couldn't bring himself to do so, just letting Prompto know that it might be later in the afternoon instead. Now he wishes he had cancelled. He still could, he knows Prompto would understand, but he also knows he'd be crushed, and Noct doesn't want to hurt him like that. They've had so much less time to hang out now that they're graduated and Prompto's working two jobs full-time to save for art school and Noct's royal duties and training have increased.
Yeah I'm back. Forty minutes? The park in Midtown? he sends. He's wary about going out alone when there are almost certainly still reporters and paparazzi prowling around, out for blood, but when he's in casual clothes without a bevy of Crownsguard surrounding him, he blends in a lot more easily. There have been surprisingly few pictures of him circulating throughout the general public over the last several years, and thanks to puberty a lot of citizens don't have an exact idea of what he looks like now.
sounds good! see u soon!
He sighs, sliding his phone back in his pocket before beginning the painful process of getting to his feet on a knee that doesn't want to cooperate. He lets out a slow breath once he's standing, all his weight on his good leg, and carefully limps down the hall to the kitchen. He stays only long enough to down a couple of over the counter painkillers. They'll barely take the edge off, but if he's going out in public without Gladio or another Crownsguard to protect him, he doesn't want any side effects keeping him from being at his best. That his knee is already keeping him from being at his best is a fact he ignores.
Limping back down the hallway, he rounds the corner and ducks into his bedroom to change, opting for jeans and a t-shirt with a baggy hoodie he can hide some of his face in. He winces when he pulls his trousers off, catching sight of how dark his knee already is, and how swollen still. He probably should cancel with Prompto, or at least have him come hang out at the apartment, but his best friend had been so excited to have the chance to wander the city and take pictures. Noct will feel like an ass denying him that.
Just a couple of hours, he decides, pulling on his jeans, having to tug hard to get the stiff fabric up over his knee. He can survive that long. A couple of hours, and then he'll talk Prompto into coming back here, or sitting in a diner or somewhere for the rest of their time together.
* * *
A couple hours, Noct realises as he follows his friend, was definitely too optimistic. He's only been walking around with Prompto for half an hour, and he can barely think straight. Despite the pills, the headache he's had all morning hasn't let up, and his knee somehow feels worse. He's been trying not to limp, not wanting to worry his best friend, but he doesn't know how much longer he can keep that up. He feels like he's going to collapse again at any moment.
"Ooh, Noct, stop, I gotta get this shot!" Prompto cries, running over to a large tree with bright red leaves, and Noct waves him on, sighing in relief and sinking down onto a nearby bench. It's probably a mistake, because he won't want to get back up, but he can't take another step.
"Make it a good one," he calls out, and gets an 'ok' sign in acknowledgement.
"You okay?" Prompto asks a few minutes later when he wanders back over, taking a seat beside him. "You've been so quiet, even for you."
"Yeah, sorry," he says, guilt bubbling up within him. "Just tired. Had to be at the museum at nine."
Prompto lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching at his chest. "Nine?! Say it isn't so, buddy! Nine 'o clock, that's the worst!" he wails, moving his hand to rest the back of it against his forehead. "What were they thinking? Everyone knows the prince isn't actually human until at least noon!"
"Shove off," Noct grumbles, pushing at his shoulder. He's smiling though, his best friend's antics lightening his mood a little.
That is, until the person loitering nearby looks up, whipping out a camera from underneath his jacket faster than Noct can blink. "Prince Noctis?" he says, and Noct winces as the flash goes off in his face. "I thought it was you. A few questions, if you don't mind. There's a rumour that His Majesty isn't expected to last the year. Can you confirm or deny this? How do you feel about this rumour? What do you intend your first action to be once you take the throne?"
"No comment," he answers, trying to keep his voice cool and steady, but the questions make him as angry as they had this morning. He gets to his feet, praying to the Six that his knee will hold, and begins walking rapidly away from the park, Prompto right behind him, keeping space between him and the jerk with no respect.
"Do you feel ready to take the throne, Prince Noctis? You're younger than his current Majesty was when he ascended, are you capable of handling all that responsibility at such an age?"
He tosses another "No comment" over his shoulder, speeding up his steps, but the asshole is persistent, dogging them across the park and down the sidewalk for a few blocks, continuing to throw insensitive questions at him despite the lack of answers, and finally Noct abandons all attempts at a calm and polite escape as he starts running, ignoring the fire in his knee as he heads for a small alleyway between two buildings, ducking into it, following it out to the other side. He runs past a few more buildings before abruptly skidding and turning into one, which turns out to be a pet store.
He grabs a basket just so he won't be hassled by employees, and immediately makes for the far end of the store, heading to the back corner next to the restrooms. Prompto's still right behind him, but thankfully the guy is gone. "Shit, sorry," he says between gasps of breath, slumping heavily against the wall.
"Nah, it's my bad," Prompto says, his tone guilty. "I shouldn't have used—well, you know. And I should have noticed him. I'm sorry, dude."
Noct shakes his head. "Not your fault, Prompto. I did see him, but I didn't see a camera, so I assumed he was fine. I know better than that."
Prompto stays quiet for several moments, catching his breath, and then finally says, "Well, he's probably gone now, if you wanna leave. Wanna go somewhere else?"
Letting out a sigh, he rubs at his eyes, wishing the pain in his head would go away. "Would you mind if I called Gladio and got him to take us back to my place? We can play games, order a pizza. I don't think I can deal with more reporters today. Sorry," he adds, feeling bad. But it's not just the reporter—his knee is shot now, and if he doesn't get off it soon he knows he won't make it home under his own power.
"Of course! That's cool with me," Prompto says, giving him a smile to show no hard feelings.
"Thanks," he mumbles, yanking his phone from the hoodie's front pocket—stupid thing had been useless at protecting his anonymity. He brings up his messages with Gladio, typing out a quick text, hoping that his Shield is done with his mandatory guard shift out at the wall around the city—the reason he hadn't been at the museum with them this morning. Prompto and I just got chased by an asshole reporter. Can you come pick us up?
The response comes almost immediately. Where are you at?
Midtown. Pet store called Bastet. In the back corner by the restrooms.
Stay put. I'm nearby. I'll be there soon.
Relief washes over Noct. "He'll be here soon," he tells Prompto, and then slides down to the floor to sit, not caring how it looks. After a hesitant moment, Prompto settles down next to him, and they wait quietly for Gladio to arrive.