Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prompto’s birthday falls on a Saturday this year, which is great, because school lets out early on Saturdays. If he moves fast, the little corner store by his house will still be open, and he can buy one of those aluminum packets of premade curry — the fancy kind you reheat on the stovetop instead of the microwave. The thought makes his chest feel warm and tight. He can’t remember the last time he actually celebrated his birthday.

He spends all day thinking about it. If Sim and Dreya remembered to send him a check this year, maybe he’ll even splurge on a treat! He can probably afford it if he runs five miles tomorrow morning instead of three. He’ll stretch out on the nice couch, the one that’s usually just for guests; and he’ll play King’s Knight and eat curry and it’ll be like a party, almost, just for him. He can’t wait for the last bell to ring.

Then it does, and Prompto feels stupid for getting excited in the first place. Because instead of jogging home and buying curry and a sticky bun and vegging out in front of his console, he spends the afternoon locked in a closet.

It’s the usual culprits: Fortis and Saeva, a couple of meatheads from a long line of Crownsguard. The two of them are always awful, but they must be having a particularly rough time at home. Usually they just shove him into the lockers and call him fat, or scrawny, or pathetic. Or all of the above. But today, they pull out all the stops.

“Think you’re so much smarter than us, huh, Argentum?” Saeva sneers, with Fortis sniggering and egging him on. “Think your way out of this, if you’re so smart.”

Anything Prompto says will only make it worse, but he’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut. “Yeah, I’m not really sure how applicable—”

“Better think fast,” Fortis jeers, and shoves him into the supply closet.

Prompt doesn’t shout for help, because Saeva and Fortis would love nothing more than to hear him squeal. He sits down with his back against the door, and wonders how long he should wait before it’s safe to come out.

It’s dark in the closet. Only a slender sliver of light creeps under the door, a stark yellow gash on the far wall with a gap where Prompto’s back blocks its path. He wonders idly if there’s a light switch in here. Maybe he can find it when his eyes adjust.

Has the goon squad left yet? He doesn’t hear any pounding feet outside, but it would be just like them to choose this particular day to learn patience. He can picture them biding their time just outside, elbowing each other and making bets on how long it’ll take him to lose his shit. Prompto wants to get to the market before it closes—but more than that, he wants to deny those bastards any shred of satisfaction. So he waits another ten minutes, idly scrolling through the albums on his phone, before he pushes himself to his feet and reaches for the doorknob.

...Except there’s no doorknob.

Prompto blinks. He feels his way across the door, slow and methodical, not letting the panic jolting through his chest drive him to frenzy. Here is the door; here, the crack between the door and its wall; here is the hinge, and between them: nothing. Just smooth, seamless wood.

“Oh,” he says, quiet enough that the meathead militia couldn't possibly hear. “Okay. Okay. I fucked up.”

His heart stutters in his chest, so quick and sharp that he can feel it in his wrists. His breath quickens. He can feel the panic filling his head with fog, turning his thoughts slow and clumsy. Is there — is there enough air in here? Is he getting enough air? Is he going to suffocate?

“Of course not,” he mutters, out loud, in an attempt to stop the thoughts in their track. “There’s a crack under the door. You’re just — in a room. A small room, but a room. Stop thinking so much. Just… focus.”

If he screams, the meatheads might hear him and come back. If he stays quiet, though, he can stay here, safe, until a janitor comes looking for some mop heads or Lysol or whatever. He won’t get his birthday curry, and he definitely won’t get a treat, but he’ll— he’ll— it’s fine. He just has to— It’s fine.

Prompto takes stock of his inventory. He has:

• A phone charged to 32%, which would be great except that there’s no service inside school walls. (Prompto hastily flips on Energy Saver mode).
• The butt of the granola bar he didn’t finish at lunch.
• His uniform.
• Enough cleaning supplies to polish the entire Citadel twice over.

Making lists usually helps with his anxiety. This one doesn’t. None of these things will help him get out, except maybe the cleaning supplies, if he could find a corrosive enough cleaner that would melt through an entire door. Except that he’d definitely die from inhaling the fumes long before it managed to melt through anything. So that’s out.

If he weren’t locked in, he would pull out his phone and—do something. Listen to something or look at something or read something. Anything to thrust into his mind to shove away the mounting fear. But he doesn’t know how long he’s going to have to stay here. If it’s more than a few hours, he suspects that he'll need it more later.

Prompto bows his head and swings the back of his skull against the door, hard enough to hurt. Thud.

“Ow,” he says quietly. It helps, but not a lot.

“Okay,” Prompto says, out loud. It helps to hear someone talk, even if it’s just himself. “Okay, so, maybe everyone’s gone home already. What happens then?”

He considers the question. He’d have to sleep here, probably. It’s far from ideal, since the closet is so small that, even with his back against the door, he has to bend his knees a little to avoid putting his foot through a shelf. And because it’s so dark, he can’t even know if he’s really alone in here at all, or if there are spiders nesting in the corners, or house centipedes squirming along the floor, or those horrible wing-y guys that are all legs and eyes and mandibles—

Prompto clutches for his phone so wildly that he nearly drops it, flicks the flashlight on with trembling fingers. As far as he can tell, there are no spiders, and no centipedes or wingy guys either. There’s just him, an empty mop bucket, and a metric shit-ton of Clorox.

“Just — chill out,” he tells himself, his voice rough and harsh. “Chill out. Just—you’re not going to get out of here by— Just chill out, okay?” He takes a jagged breath and feels his heart start to slow. “Worst case scenario,” he reasons, “you spend the night here, and you’re already dressed and in the right place when school starts tomor-”

The realization goes through him like a sledgehammer. School doesn’t start tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday. It’s their day off. No one is going to be here. No one is going to let him out.

###

A half hour later, Prompto schedules in a quick, restrained cry.

An hour later, he tells himself not to eat the granola bar, that he’s going to need it more later.

Two hours later, he eats the granola bar.

Four hours later, he pencils in a followup cry, this one a bit less restrained now that he’s sure he’s alone in an abandoned schoolhouse. He knows he’s being stupid — he doesn’t have any water, and he definitely can’t afford to lose fluids on something as indulgent and pointless as crying.

Still, when he’s finished, he does feel a little better. Or — less bad, anyway. Once he’s cried his tear ducts dry, it leaves him pleasantly numb, tired and tingly and kind of far away, like he’s watching the scene play out from ten feet overhead. He decides that he should probably make time to cry more often.

“See, isn’t that nice?” he asks himself, only the normal amount hysterical. “What a great learning experience this is turning out to be.”

Then he laughs, because it’s — funny, sort of. In the right light. Or it will be later, probably. Right now, it’s not that funny.

Prompto doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He doesn’t even realize that he did until he realizes that he’s waking up, which can only happen if you weren’t awake before.

He wakes up because he can hear someone running.

His hackles are up in an instant. Is it Saeva and Fortis, come to finish the job? No one else knows he’s in here, and the footsteps don’t sound like a teacher’s — they’re too light, too furtive, as though the person making them is trying to be sneaky. Prompto hears them getting closer, weighs the risks of “getting caught at school after hours” against “dying of thirst in a supply closet” and comes to a pretty easy conclusion. As the footsteps draw closer, Prompto opens his mouth to call out—

—and then the door whips open, blinding him with a dazzle of light, and a black-and-blue blur hurtles toward him.

Unfortunately, the blur must not have been expecting to find another person hunched just inside the threshold. At the speed they’re moving, there’s no time to slow down. They trip over Prompto’s shoulder and momentum carries them forward, sending them clattering face-first into the shelves of Clorox.

“Oh my god,” Prompto says, reaching for the newcomer in abject horror. “Holy shit, are you—?”

...and the door clicks shut behind him.

“No!” he starts to shout, but the unidentified stumbler recovers fast — he’s already twisted around in the dark and reached back to wrap his fingers around Prompto’s wrist.

“Shhh,” the stranger says, with an undercurrent of such potent desperation that Prompto finds that he can’t disobey. His mouth clacks shut, and he shuts up.

“What are you—” he starts to ask, whispering this time, but the new guy’s grip on his wrist tightens.

“Please,” he breathes. “Be quiet.”

Prompto blinks at him — or, well, at the place where he assumes the guy is. The light that came through when the door opened obliterated his low-light vision, plunging him back into the same inky dark he saw when he arrived. Prompto opens his mouth to press the guy, and then closes it. Whatever it is that this kid is hiding from, it scares him enough that he’d lock himself in a closet without even slowing down to ask any questions about the weird little man who apparently lives there.

And… the guy said please. He didn’t shove Prompto against the door, or clamp a hand over his mouth and nose so he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t even phrase it like an order. He asked him to be quiet.

Prompto shrugs and stays quiet, and after a moment, the hand gripping his wrist loosens. It gives him one more quick squeeze (in thanks?) before it retracts back into the dark.

Time passes — ten minutes, maybe, and then Prompto hears the guy sigh.

“Astrals,” the newcomer mutters. “What a night.”

Prompto’s eyes have begun to readjust to the dark, enough to make out the silhouette of his new companion. He’s pretty sure the guy’s wearing his school uniform, so maybe it’s a classmate of his? It’s a little comforting, but it still doesn’t explain what he’s doing sneaking around school in the middle of the night.

Before he can ask about it, the new guy starts talking again.

“So,” he says. “You come here often?”

Prompto can’t help it: he snorts. He knows he has an ugly laugh; as soon as it slips out, he claps a hand over his mouth as though to shove it back down his windpipe, but New Guy doesn’t make fun of him. In the murky dark, Prompto thinks he can make out the ghost of a smile flicker over his face, there and then gone.

“Yeah,” Prompto shoots back, matching the other boy’s deadpan. “I live here, actually.”

“Seriously?” the guy asks, incredulous. “Are you—”

Prompto’s already laughing again, harder than before. In the dark, he can see the guy’s head tilt.

“You are fucking with me,” he says, voice bright with realization. It’s not a question, but Prompto answers it anyway.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “Shocking as it may be, I do not, in fact, live in this supply closet.”

Now it’s the new guy’s turn to snort.

“I’m disappointed,” he admits. “Thought we had our own class cryptid.”

“How do you know we don’t?” Prompto points out. “It’s dark in here. Maybe I’ve got six arms or something, and you just can’t see them.”

New Guy laughs again, and Prompto feels warmth bloom from his chest.

“So,” Prompto adds, impulsive, before he can lose courage. “What brings you to my supply closet?”

“Oh, so it’s your supply closet?”

“I think we can both agree that I got here first,” he points out, and when the other kid laughs again, he thinks his chest might burst with pride.

“Yeah,” New Guy admits. “Can’t argue with that.”

A pause stretches between them. Prompto breaks first.

“...So are you gonna tell me what you’re hiding from, or what?”

“Are you?” New Guy shoots back.

“That’s different,” Prompto answers easily. “I’m not in here by choice.”

That makes New Guy go quiet, which immediately makes Prompto worry that he’s said too much. Now that New Guy knows he’s at the bottom of the food chain, maybe he’ll stop laughing at his jokes.

Instead, the stranger clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “That sucks.”

“It’s whatever,” Prompto assures him.

“No, it’s — I don’t know. Sounds like it fucking sucks. Sorry. I get it — well, I don’t get it exactly, but I kinda get it.”

Prompto doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. After a moment, the newcomer straightens up.

“Wait, if you got shoved in here, why are you still here? Why haven’t you left?”

“There’s no handle,” he says. Even in the half-light, he can see the guy’s jaw drop.

“There’s — what?”

“There’s no handle on this side of the door,” Prompto explains again.

“Then why didn’t you make a break for it when I opened it??”

“You—”

It takes a second for Prompto to realize how stupid he must look. Because that’s exactly what he should have done, isn’t it? He’s been trapped here for hours already, and yet when the universe conspired to give him an exit, he spat on it — reached for the stranger instead of the open door.

“...you fell,” he says quietly, at last. “I didn’t— I was worried you were hurt. I wasn’t thinking, I guess.” And then, as though hoping that it will exonerate him: “I was asleep.”

To his surprise, the guy snorts again.

“I’m slow to wake too,” he admits. “If you threw a ball at me first thing in the morning, I’d lift my hand to catch it halfway through breakfast.”

Prompto snickers at the mental image.

“Hey,” New Guy says. “What’s your name? I can’t just keep thinking of you as the closet cryptid.”

“Uhh, can’t you?” Prompto demands. “It’s like, the coolest nickname I’ve ever landed.” He doesn’t mention that his nicknames are usually a good deal less kind. Instead he adds, “but you can call me Prompto, I guess. If you have to.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” the guy drawls. “And hey, Prompto. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Is it?” Prompto can’t help but ask. “Is it really? This is the sort of time you think is nice?”

The light filtering under the door flashes off of white teeth.

“Weirdly, yeah, actually.”

“No accounting for taste,” Prompto sniffs. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda fucked up?”

New Guy sputters.

“Would you believe, no?”

“No.” And then, basking in the light of his new companion’s wheezing: “So what do I call you?”

Even in the dark, he can see a sharp movement — the guy’s chin jerks up, snaps toward him. He gives Prompto a long, considering look and then shrugs.

“What do you think?”

“...What is this, a trick?”

“Yeah,” the guy deadpans. “I’m tricking you into giving me a dumb nickname so I can get mad and push you into a smaller, even more cluttered sub-closet.”

Prompto knows he’s kidding, but the words still make him tighten up a little. Somehow, impossibly, the guy notices. A moment later, a hand alights on his wrist. Prompto twitches away reflexively but the touch is gentle, and a moment later it’s gone.

“Sorry,” New Guy says. “Stupid joke. I don’t know why I said it.”

“It’s fine,” Prompto tells him hastily, waving it away; and then, in an effort to save face, “but if you don’t learn the error of your ways, I might have to name you Cletus.”

The guy chokes on a laugh.

“Okay,” he says thoughtfully, once he catches his breath. “How about I give you a codename? Like, for instance, you could call me… Noctis.”

Prompto blinks at him.

“...What,” he says, “like the prince?”

“Yeah,” New Guy says. His voice is still self-assured, but now there’s a little edge of insecurity that Prompto can’t quite make sense of. “Why? You think he’ll mind?”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll come crashing through our closet any minute now to file a complaint.”

The guy — ‘codename Noctis’ — huffs a laugh.

“Aw,” he says. “So now it’s our closet?”

“Hey, I’m a generous guy.”

###

“So how long have you been here, anyway?” the guy asks him, after a comfortable silence. Prompto lifts a shoulder, and then realizes that ‘Noctis’ probably can’t see him.

“I dunno,” he says diffidently. “Since school let out, I guess.”

“Seriously?” Noctis demands, straightening. “Have you had anything to eat?”

“Not really,” Prompto tells him. “It’s cool, though. I’ve got a slow metabolism. Could probably use the diet anyways.”

“I’m not sure not eating counts as a diet,” Noctis mutters.

“What about intermittent fasting, isn’t that a thing?”

“You’re thinking of starving.”

Prompto snorts.

“Anyway,” he says, “it’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.”

“Move over,” Noctis tells him.

“What?” Prompto asks, heart sinking. “I mean, um, sorry, am I in your way?”

“I gotta get something out of my bag,” Noct explains. “But I don’t wanna drop it on your knees.”

“Oh, sure.”

Prompto tucks his knees to his chest and listens to the gentle rustle and crinkle of his new friend — no, that’s too presumptuous; his new companion digging through his pack. After a moment, a greasy, savory scent fills the space. Prompto feels his mouth flood with spit.

“You packed a lunch, huh?” he starts to ask the guy, and then feels something cold and faintly damp poke his cheek. “Pffw,” he sputters, jerking away. “Dude! What are you—”

“Sorry,” Noctis says immediately, though he doesn’t sound very sorry — Prompto can hear a smile in his voice. “You seemed like you were gonna refuse, so I thought I’d take the choice out of your hands.”

“Refuse…” Prompto thinks fast, tries to put it all together. “...Dude, are you trying to give me your lunch?”

“Yeah,” Noctis confesses.

“Wh— but— Noct!” Prompto wails. The combination of the savory scent and his churning hunger make it come out kind of reedy and frantic. “You can’t!”

“Is that a nickname?” the guy asks, audibly amused. “Did you just give the Prince of Lucis a nickname?”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Prompto quips, and the guy snorts again. “Listen, buddy, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there’s no school tomorrow. We might have to spend two days in here, and this time tomorrow when you’re going feral with hunger, I’m not gonna be the guy who ate your lunch.”

See, this is what I was trying to avoid,” Noct sighs.

“Did you even eat anything today?”

“I ate!” Noct insists. “My — uh, friend always packs me an extra lunch in case I have to go straight from school to — soccer practice.”

“You play soccer?” Prompto asks, momentarily distracted.

“Would I say so if I didn’t?”

“I don’t know,” Prompto tells him, eyeing him beadily. “I don’t know you. Maybe you’re a compulsive liar. Maybe you hate soccer. I don’t even know your real name.”

“I told you, it’s—”

“Yeah, yeah, Noctis Lucis Caelum, I got it.”

The guy seems to find that enormously funny. Prompto can hear the breath huff out of him, staccato.

“Well, I’ll tell you this much,” Noct says quietly, once he’s finished wheezing. “There is no chance we’re spending two days in here.”

“You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” Prompto sighs. “That’s how I was at first, too. Denial,” he adds, with showy, overwrought melancholy. “It is but the first step on a long journey to—”

“—eating my sandwich?”

“The exact opposite of that, actually.”

The guy sighs.

“Can we compromise?” he suggests. “Split it?”

Prompto considers it. He’s never smelled something so fragrant: meaty and greasy and rich, with floral notes of rosemary and thyme. It’s intoxicating enough to erode his resolve.

“...fine,” he concedes. “But I call the smaller half.”

“Knew I’d wear you down,” the guy says smugly. Prompto sticks his tongue out at him.

“Yeah, I’m sure all those years ruling over Lucis really prepared you to peer pressure a stranger into eating your dinner.”

‘Noctis’ gets a kick out of that.

###

“So you want me to kill those guys for you?” codename Noct asks, once Prompto’s swallowed every crumb of the literal best sandwich that he’s ever put in his mouth.

“Huh? Which guys?”

“You know,” Noct says. “The fuckheads who put you in here.”

“Oh, those guys,” Prompto says, shifting uncomfortably. “...kinda,” he admits, and then adds, “but… no. That sounds like a supervillain origin story in the making.”

“For me or them?”

“I guess… both?”

Noct snorts.

“What’s their deal, anyway?” he asks. “Why are they messing with you?”

“I don’t know,” Prompto says, squirming a little. He hates talking about this stuff. “Nothing interesting. They’re big, I’m small; they’re tough, I’m not. And they’re legacy Crownsguard. You know how those guys are.”

“...Pretend that I don’t.”

“You know,” Prompto says again. “The whole, the people who seek power are never the ones who should have it thing. They just wanna feel like a big man. Or maybe they just think it’s funny, I don’t know, I’m not a therapist. Maybe they found out it’s my birthday—”

“It’s your birthday?” his companion gasps.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Happy birthday,” Noct tells him, so earnestly that Prompto subsides into giggles.

“Gee, thanks, your royal highness.”

“Please,” the other kid says. “To my friends, it’s just Noct.”

High as he is off of good food and good company and the utter absurdity of the situation, his new friend’s playacting is enough to set him off again. Prompto leans back in his seat and outright cackles.

###

An hour later, Prompto starts to shiver. The goon squad took his blazer before they pushed him in here, and he’s starting to suspect that the school shuts off the heaters overnight. He’s proud of how hard he’s worked, getting fit and everything, but it also means that he doesn’t have enough body fat to stay warm when it’s any colder than 70 degrees out.

He tries to keep it quiet, but when his teeth clack together, he can see the other guy stir.

“Are you cold?” Noctis asks. Prompto shrugs.

“I guess,” he says casually, as though his teeth weren’t audibly chattering. “I, uh. Don’t have my blazer.”

To his relief, Noct doesn’t ask why. The only reply Prompto gets is more of that rustling — and then a bundle of fabric is thrust toward him.

“What?” he sputters, pushing it away. “C’mon, dude, I can’t take the food out of your mouth and the clothes off your back. I'm a friendly school cryptid, not a — a freaking daemon.”

“But I’m not cold,” Noct points out reasonably. “And you are.”

“There’s no chance, dude,” he says, his voice firm and steady. Filling his stomach strengthened his resolve; he feels ready to fight to the death for the right to not steal this guy’s jacket.

As though sensing his conviction, his partner in captivity sighs.

“Okay,” he says. “Then what about this?”

There’s more rustling, and then Prompto feels something warm and solid slide in beside him — an arm, pressing up against his.

“Uh,” he starts to say, but codename Noctis is already leaning away.

“Sorry,” the guy says, “that was — weird, probably. I just meant — this way you don’t have to take my jacket, but you still—”

“No, totally,” Prompto assures him, a little too fast. “We’re gonna be here all night, it only makes sense to, uh, pool resources. Body heat! It’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

“Right,” Noct agrees, and the smile is back in his voice. “It’s only practical.”

###

“Hey, Noct?” Prompto says quietly, a few minutes later. “Are you asleep?”

He wasn’t really being serious when he asked, but when he glances over, it becomes apparent that the other boy is, in fact, asleep. In the dingy dark of the closet, all Prompto can see of his face is the shadow of his bangs and the outline of his knees, leaning against Prompto’s own.

“Oh,” he says, more quietly, and lets him rest.

As the minutes pass, Noct’s head slips lower, sinking until it comes to rest on Prompto’s shoulder. Prompto’s pretty sure that he would usually mind — he’s never liked people getting in his space — but somehow, for some reason, he just… doesn’t. He’s not as cold with Noct’s arm on his, and with Noct’s cheek warm against his shoulder.

Noct’s cheek, huh? Now that he thinks about it, it’s pretty fucking weird that this kid wants Prompto to call him Noct. Prompto’s getting used to it, but he really probably shouldn’t. Obviously there’s no one around to hear him now, but by day, throwing the prince’s name around like this might be treason, or, like, blasphemy or something. Especially since Prince Noctis actually does go to their school. Prompto’s admittedly kinda smitten with his mysterious new friend, but he’s not about to go to jail for it.

“You’re gonna have to tell me your real name eventually,” he murmurs, but ‘Noct’ doesn’t stir. The beginnings of a smile ticks at the corner of Prompto’s mouth.

“I can’t believe you can sleep in a place like this,” he tells the guy quietly. And then he falls asleep.

###

He’s still sleeping when the door swings open behind him, sending the two of them spilling backward in a puddle of sleep-slack limbs. The little space is filled with blinding blue light, and Prompto finds himself staring down the blade of two elaborately uniformed, heavily armed Crownsguard.

Still glued to Prompto’s shoulder, codename Noct’s eyes flick open. He blinks sleepily up at their assailants.

“Oh,” he says vaguely, “hey, guys. What took you so long?”

Both of the armored goons start talking at once.

“—the hell, Noct,” the big guy is roaring, “what the hell were you thinking, pulling something like this? You could have—”

“—completely reckless,” the guy in glasses snaps, “demonstrating a distinct lack of common sense, not to mention utter disregard for your station—”

“You know,” Noct says blearily, rubbing sleep from his eyes, “I’m stuck in here because of regard for my station, actually. To prevent a scandal and stuff.”

“Wait,” Prompto says, blinking dizzily. His eyes won’t focus after all that time spent in the dark. “They call you Noct too?”

Big Guy and Glasses whirl to stare at him.

“Your highness,” Glasses says, with distaste. “Would you care to introduce us to your… associate?”

“Sure,” Noct says tiredly, (while in the background, Prompto is going “wait, your high— wait, like the actual Noctis—??”). “Prompto, this is Ignis, Gladio. Guys, this is Prompto.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Glasses tells him, with frigid courtesy.

Prompto, whose brain isn’t processing information very well but is pretty sure that isn’t true, manages a faint “no.”

The big guy snorts.

“Glad to see you were having so much fun,” he growls at the literal Noctis, Crown Prince of Lucis, whose cheek is still pink where it pressed against Prompto’s shoulder. “While we searched the entire city for your royal ass. But the date’s over, princess,” he says, hauling Noct to his feet with a hand as large as a hock of ham. “It’s time to face the music.”

“Wait,” Noct says. Both furious soldiers round on him.

“What could possibly justify further delay?” Glasses snaps.

“It’s Prompto’s birthday,” Noct says. Prompto’s jaw literally drops.

“No, no no,” he starts to say, but no one is listening to Prompto.

“Is this a friend of yours?” Ignis demands, giving Prompto a suspicious glare. The big guy’s forehead crinkles.

“I thought you didn’t have any—”

“We just met,” Noct cuts in. His attendants give him matching incredulous stares.

“You really don’t have to do anything, dude,” Prompto is babbling in the background. “I mean — your royal, um, highness — it’s already been, like, the best birthday I’ve had in years—”

The prince gapes at him.

“Okay,” Noct says. “Putting aside how sad that is — I would have freaked out in there if not for you, dude. The least I can do is take you to dinner.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” says Prompto, whose mouth goes on autopilot when his brain is on standby. The shaved gorilla looming behind Noct snorts. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Noct tells him, smirking a little, and Prompto realizes that this is the first time he’s seen the prince up close. His eyes are the exact blue-grey of thunderheads before a storm. It makes Prompto kinda light-headed, looking at him.

“Highness,” Glasses says impatiently, “I can appreciate your feelings gratitude toward your — ah — companion in captivity, but if we should delay any further, your father will convoke a formal search, and you will find yourself mired in the very crisis of image you sought to avoid.”

“Crisis of… Wait, so you weren’t hiding from — assassins or something?” Prompto asks, dumbfounded. “You just didn’t want to get caught?”

Noctis shoots him a guilty look. Behind him, Glasses massages his temples.

“Thank you for your service,” he says stiffly, to Prompto this time. “The crown appreciates your discretion. If arrangements need be made to, ah, ensure that discretion—”

I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Prompto assures him. “You don’t have to like, bribe me—”

Then he remembers that he probably shouldn’t interrupt a direct subordinate of the actual King of Lucis and claps his mouth shut. To his relief, Glasses just gives him an approving nod.

“As it should be. Well, if that is all, we will be on our—”

“Can we give him a ride home at least?” Noct asks, sounding irritable and a little bit petulant. “It’s late. He doesn’t even have his jacket.”

“If he failed to dress appropriately for the weather, I hardly see how that’s— oh, yes, all right, fine,” Glasses huffs. “I can see that you won’t be listening to reason. But this is an entirely inappropriate allocation of sovereign resources, and furthermore—”

While Glasses berates the future king of Lucis, the human-bear hybrid sidles up to Prompto.

“They’ll be at it for a while,” he rumbles, in a voice so deep Prompto can feel it vibrate in his spine. “C’mon, they’ll follow if we start walking.”

“Oh,” Prompto tells him dumbly. “Uh. Good.”

So that’s how Prompto gets escorted home in a limousine by the Crown Prince of Lucis.

###

“Sorry I can’t stay,” Noct says regretfully, as Prompto hops out.

“Are you kidding me? I’m sorry I—” disrespected the crown, stole a royal sandwich, insulted the Crownsguard and oh astrals, I called him fucked up, didn’t I?? There are so many things to be sorry about that Prompto’s mind kinda glitches out and he’s left with his mouth hanging open, speechless.

A furtive grin flickers over Noct’s face.

“I’m probably gonna be grounded for the next six years,” he says quietly, “but, uh. I’ll see you around?”

“See you around,” Prompto echoes helplessly. In the background, he can see the big guy crack up. Then the reflective window slides between them and the car peels out and the prince is gone.

Prompto staggers up to Sim and Dreya’s condo, feeling more tired than he’s ever felt in his entire life. He falls face-first onto the couch with the intention of lying there, unmoving, until sunrise.

Ten minutes later, his doorbell rings.

His heart twists in his chest.

Don’t be dumb, he tells himself, getting up. He already said he’s grounded. Getting your hopes up isn’t just stupid, it’s pointless. It’s not gonna be Noct.

It’s not Noct. It’s a delivery girl, holding out a paper bag and wearing an expression of utmost bemusement.

“I just got the weirdest order,” she confides in him. “Tipped like a king, so I can hardly complain, but — the guy on the phone said I could call him Noctis. Can you believe that?”

“You know,” Prompto tells her, with feeling, “I really can.”

There’s a cake in the bag. Prompto’s not sure how Noct pulled it off, since they parted ways maybe ten minutes ago, but it’s even customized. Happy Birthday Promto, it says, which for reasons unknown to him, makes Prompto laugh like a maniac. And under that text, of all things, is a phone number, scrawled in swirling, cherry-red frosting. Prompto stares at it for several minutes before tapping it into his phone.

“hey,” he writes. “if the king asks, i didn't even touch the sandwich.”

Almost immediately afterwards, the screen lights up.

“ur secrets safe with me,” says Noctis Lucis Caelum, Crown Prince of Lucis. And then, just a few seconds after that: “sorry i couldnt come over. see u monday?”

Prompto takes a minute to consider the insanity that is his life before he taps out a reply.

“sure,” he types. “lets do the 1st floor pantry next time — better legroom.”

“ill bring sandwiches,” Noct zings back.

Prompto snickers and flings himself down on the bed. It’s 11:34 — still his birthday, technically, though not for long. He’s home alone on his birthday again, just like always. But for the first time in a long time, Prompto finds himself feeling… kinda optimistic.

Stuffed full of steak and cake and a swooping, fluttering, giddy sort of buoyancy, Prompto plugs in his phone and calls it a night.

Chapter Text

But when Monday rolls around, Noct is nowhere to be found. The next day, his seat is still empty. A whole week goes by, and there’s still no Noctis.

In the privacy of his mind, Prompto drafts texts.

hey noct, remember me? ur not dead, right? Except that’s way too forward, and besides, it could maybe be used to frame him for murder if something really did happen to Noct. Which it definitely didn’t, because it would have been on the news and stuff, but — whatever. There’s no reason to tempt fate, especially not when you’re living with a secret like the one tattooed on Prompto’s wrist. He starts over.

hi noctis, it’s me, the closet cryptid! u didn’t drop out, did you? But ugh, no, that sounds like he’s accusing Noct of something, and it’s not like the literal Prince of Lucis owes Prompto anything. If anything, it’s Promtpo that owes Noct — for the cake, and for freeing him from a locked closet and sparing him the embarrassment of an supremely uncool death.

hey prince noctis! remember prompto, that weird sad kid u found locked in a closet because he was too pathetic to fight off a couple of bullies? if u want, u could see him again, at literally any time, because he has nothing else going on in his life!!

Prompto gives up.

For the two weeks leading up to finals, Prompto doesn’t see Noct. He doesn’t see him in school, he doesn’t see him out of school, and he doesn’t even see him on the news, which usually reports on what Noct is wearing and where he’s eating and whose hands he’s shaking on a given week.

It’s fine. It’s for the best, probably. If he doesn’t want to disappoint Sim and Dreya, he needs to get okay grades on his exams, and that’s gonna require his full concentration. He doesn’t have time to be fantasizing about hanging out with a prince whose entire existence floats so high over Prompto’s head that even an airship couldn’t close the distance.

Finals come and finals go. By the time winter break swings around, Prompto’s pretty much convinced himself that the whole thing was some kind of fever dream — a pathetically hopeful delusion born of isolation-induced hysteria.

He’s just about come to terms with it when he hears a knock at the door.

...Weird. Sim and Dreya let him know that a last-minute contract came up, and that they won’t be back until next month. But he hasn’t ordered any take-out, either. Did they… Is there any chance they sent him a care package or something? No, he answers easily. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s probably just someone who’s got the wrong floor. Give ‘em directions and get back to your life.

He opens the door.

It’s Noct.

—No, sorry, it’s Prince Noctis; just because you share a closet with a guy doesn’t mean you get to drop the honorifics. The Crown Prince of Lucis is reclining against the doorjamb, canted so far to the side that a stiff breeze could knock him over.

“Hey,” he says casually. “Mind if I come in?”

###

A few minutes later, the Crown Prince of Lucis is sprawled out on Promptos’ couch, idly scrolling on his phone.

“Uh,” Prompto says unsteadily. “Can I… Get you anything?”

“Oh, do you have something to eat?” Noct asks. “That’d be great, actually. I haven’t eaten anything since… Last night, I guess.”

“Dude, no problem,” Prompto says magnanimously. Then he shuffles over to his completely empty fridge and realizes that he’s fucked, actually, because he completely does not have anything that he could confidently feed to a stray dog, much less a prince. After a frenzied few minutes, he ends up with a slice of stale toast, a half a piece of salami, and the crusty dregs of a jar of mustard on a paper plate.

“Wow,” Noct deadpans. “Really pulling out the royal treatment, huh?”

“There wasn’t—” Prompto starts to sputter, panicked, but Noct is already laughing.

“Sorry,” he snickers. “I’m kidding. It’s not like I gave you any warning. Anyway, we’ve known each other for like, an hour. You’re fine.”

“Hey,” Prompto says, showily faux-hurt to hide his mild but genuine hurt. “We’ve known each other an hour and a half, at least.”

Noct snorts, and Prompto feels the weight on his shoulders lighten.

The prince winces slightly as he crunches into the toast.

“Hey, Prompto,” he says, as Prompto turns to get him a glass of water. “Probably should have led with that, huh? Hey, Prompto. Long time no see. Sorry I ghosted you, my dad swiped my phone.”

“Huh,” Prompto says consideringly. It hadn’t occurred to him that Noct hadn’t texted him because he couldn’t. “Well,” he says, “since it would probably be treason to take issue with that, I can safely say that I have no issue with that.”

Noctis snickers again.

“Anyway,” he says, yawning and stretching like a cat. “I’m here because I was hoping you could help me with something, I guess.”

“Oh, yeah?” Prompto asks, which is code for, what could I possibly help you with, given that I am a scrublord plebe and you are the king of our entire continent?

“Yeah,” Noct says, which is code for, yeah. “I was grounded for a while, but now I’m back to training, and — oh, right, uh. I do, like, weapons training. I don’t know if that’s something everyone knows?”

“It’s not,” Prompto informs him, rapid-blinking in honest disorientation. Prompto is distantly aware that the king of Lucis does a lot of high-stakes magic stuff behind the scenes. But it's not like anyone really thinks about that, day to day. As long as the lights stay on and the bad guys stay outside the wall, it doesn't really affect them much.

Now that he thinks about it, of course the prince is doing combat training. How else could he grow up to be a warrior king? Still, it’s weird to think about, standing across the kitchen from a kid his age who looks about as tired as Prompto feels after exam week.

“Weapons training, huh?” he asks after a moment, unable to help himself. “What, like… nunchuck tricks?”

Noct chokes on a laugh.

“Sword tricks, mostly,” he says, after he recovers. “A few spear tricks and gun tricks, I guess. But I’m a sword guy, mostly.”

“Sure,” Prompto agrees expansively. “Me too. Love a sword. Love to see one someday.”

“That could be arranged,” Noct says drily. “No, sorry, I mean — my point is, now that I’m ungrounded, I’m back to regular training, and since it’s winter break, they’ve got me on this — this weird exercise.” Noct’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flick away, toward the wall behind Prompto. “My dad has this… weird paranoia that I’m gonna end up on the run someday, and that I’ll have to keep a low profile or whatever. So he wants me to know how to like, hide out from the people looking for me.”

“Right,” Prompto says slowly. “That makes sense.”

It does make sense. It’s also blowing his mind a little. Of course Prompto knows that Noct lives in a different world. But he mostly envisioned it as a glittering, glamorous world, floating high above his own. This isn’t really what he expected. The idea of a kid his age training to evade enemies and fight for his life, alone, is a little grimmer than he had in mind.

Psychosocial epiphanies aside, Prompto still can’t figure out what this has to do with him. Don’t get him wrong, he’s definitely thrilled to see Noct—is, Prince Noctis — and he’s honored to learn a little more about Noct’s life. But how is a scrub like Prompto supposed to help with a training exercise?

“...so I figure this is actually one of the only places that they wouldn’t track me, cause I wouldn’t have to leave a paper trail, or — you know, like, show up on any CCTV. Does that make sense?”

Prompto stares. Shit, he got lost in his head for a second there, and now he has no idea what’s going on.

“Wait, sorry,” he says, pathetically. “I’m kinda slow today, so just — cards on the table — what are you asking, exactly?”

To his surprise, Noct flushes.

“I — okay,” the prince says, all in a rush. Then he takes a breath and his steady, unflappable cool is back. “It sounds a little crazy, is all,” he says wryly. “Uh — I need to show my dad that I can stay out of sight, so — I need a place to hide out for a few days.”

Prompto stares at him.

“It’s totally okay if I can’t,” Noct says, a little too fast. “It’s out of nowhere, I know, and I doubt your parents would—”

“It’s okay,” Prompto says, just as quick. The sheer suddenness of it — the enormity of the proposition — is faintly dizzying. Is Noct actually asking to stay with him? In real life? For like... days? His heart skitters and skips. “You’re in luck,” he says hoarsely. “My folks are out of town this week, actually.”

“Seriously?” Noct says, eyes widening. Prompto grins, a little helplessly.

“Yeah, dude, I mean — I can’t promise you it’ll be good living, and — if I let you stay here, the Crownsguard aren’t gonna like, blow up my door, right?”

“If they do, they’ll definitely replace it,” Noct says solemnly. “Within the hour.”

Prompto gives Noct a suspicious squint. The worst part is, he honestly can’t decide if he’s kidding.

“Well,” he says, giving in. “You can stay as long as you want, obviously. But it won’t hurt my feelings if you decide to find a new hiding spot partway through.”

“Yeah, of course,” Noct agrees, and Prompto’s heart sinks a little until he adds, “you’re right, Gladio and Ignis have been here before… They might come looking at some point. But I can cross that bridge when I get to it,” he concludes, flashing a cocky grin that completely dismantles any further arguments that Prompto might have.

“Totally,” he says weakly. “Then uh — yeah, dude, welcome to your home away from home.” He stands there for a moment, head spinning, and then opens his mouth and asks the first thing that pops into his head. “So you think we should, like… make traps or something?”

“Seriously?” Noct snickers, and then grins. “Yeah, sure, why not. What’d you have in mind?”

They make traps. Prompto fishes some empty cans out of the recycle bin, strings them together with twine and winds one end around the door knob. Noctis places a bucket of mopwater in a patch of shadow just inside the doorway, “because it will be funny if someone steps in it.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

Noctis microwaves some dinner while Prompto puts the finishing touches on his last trap — a coil of wire that will let him wire a battery through the doorknob, rigging it to give the holder a very mild shock.

“Genius,” Noct says drily when Prompto tells him about it. “You’ll stop them in their tracks for at least a second.”

“Maybe two!” Prompto suggests hopefully, which earns him a lazy grin.

###

Noct takes his bed, obviously. Prompto insists. Noct tries to counter-insist, but Prompto really, really insists, emphatic on the edge of hysterical, until Noct folds. Prompto doesn’t mind the couch, anyway. It’s nice to stretch out across from the kitchen and survey the ridiculous Rube Goldberg machine of booby traps they built, and at the kitchen counter where he and Noct had dinner. When’s the last time Prompto had dinner with anyone? ...Probably the steak sandwich he split with Noct in that closet.

Prompto’s chest swells painfully. He’s not sure how much longer Noct’s life will overlap with his own, but he is game for whatever. He’s having the time of his life. Noct is wry and warm in kind of a cold way and constantly surprising, weirdly easy to be around in spite of a million reasons to feel otherwise. And Noct is — staying here? For multiple days, maybe, depending on how long it takes the beefcake (‘Gladio?’) and Glasses to knock down his door.

Prompto can’t believe his life, but he’s not about to complain.

###

When Prompto wakes up, his neck is sore. The pillow under his cheek feels wrong, flat and dense and from the wrong material, rough against his face. And beneath him is — wait, where is he exactly? Wait, why is he on the couch?

Memory rushes in: Prince Noctis, at the door of his apartment. Noctis, nuking instant noodles. Noct, sleeping in his bed.

Prompto bolts awake and whips an only slightly frantic glance around to see if anyone else is here. But no one is. Noct is still asleep, or else he already left. Prompto considers peeking in on his bedroom to find out, instantly envisions a branching tree of a hundred different ways that could go wrong, and decides against it.

Either way, he concludes, he deserves pancakes.

For whatever reason, Prompto kinda expected Noct to show up when he was halfway through breakfast, or to step blearily in after Prompto flipped the final pancake. But he doesn’t. Prompto shrugs and covers half the pancakes with an upside-down bowl before eating the rest. Extenuating circumstances, he says defensively to his anxiety, which growls at the sight of the unchecked carb intake. Anyway, whatever, fuck off, I’ll go for a run later, okay?

Six hours later, Noct shuffles in.

“Wow, dude,” Prompto says, at the sight of him. “Sixteen hours straight. I’ve never seen anything like it. You broke all the records. I called the guys at Guiness and they’re all going nuts—”

“Fuck off,” Noct says, even as a slow, sleepy smile spreads over his face. “Sixteen, really? Astrals. Thanks, Prompto,” he says, a little bit reverently. “No one’s ever gonna let me sleep this much again.”

“Jeez, dude, not ever?”

Noctis grimaces.

“There’s,” he says, and waves his hand vaguely. “Meetings and stuff. Training. PR stuff. School.”

“Aw, man, dude,” Prompto says, genuinely crushed. “Do you wanna just hibernate through this thing? Cause that could be arranged.”

Noct bites off a grin.

“That’s the coolest thing anyone’s ever asked me,” he says solemnly. “Hey, are those pancakes?”

###

“Okay,” Prompto says a little numbly, after playing King’s Knight for four straight hours. “Hang on, hold on, I gotta… We can’t just sit here all day.”

“We can’t?” Noct says, giving him a hangdog stare. Prompto throws his hands up.

“I can’t! You can definitely do whatever you want, I just gotta go for a run, I think. Get some energy out.”

“You run?” Noct asks, cocking his head. Prompto shrugs.

“I guess?”

Noct squints into the middle distance, considering that.

“How far you thinking?” he asks.

“I don’t know, three or four miles?”

Noct frowns, works his jaw.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s trying it on for size. “Yeah, okay. I’ll come too.”

###

Prompto doesn’t run because he’s good at it. He runs because it helps his anxiety, for a couple of reasons actually, and because when he’s working out really consistently, his spells of lingering gloom only stick around a couple days instead of a couple weeks.

He’s not super fast, though. He’s got pretty good stamina — he’d have to, by now — but it still feels hard some nights.

Tonight is not one of those nights.

Running through the orange lamplight pace for pace with Noct, he feels strong and light and fast, bounding almost weightlessly through the cold night air. Noct is in disguise by way of a gaudy hoodie and a hat pulled low over his face, so he looks a little bit ridiculous, but Prompto can see a loose little half-grin peeking out from under the brim of that hat, like Noct is feeling light too. It makes the concrete feel like rubber under his feet.

They go for longer than Prompto meant to. What can he say? He’s having a good time. Prompto doesn’t always enjoy running, but when it feels good, it feels very good.

Eventually, though, he can sense that soon, the adrenaline and the novelty will no longer be enough to negate the exhaustion, and that ideally he should get home not too long after that.

Prompto picks a familiar route and steers them home.

By the time they turn onto his block he’s properly tired, his footfalls coming down heavy and slow, though he still manages to pick up the pace a bit for the final stretch. He’s sure his face is blotchy but he couldn’t possibly care. He feels amazing, pulsing and electric, like he can feel the heat of his blood surging against the bite of winter wind; and of course he’s also incredibly, just unbelievably tired. He’s so tired that he doesn’t notice movement behind the front door of his apartment complex until the door starts to creak open.

“—if not here, then where?” an instantly-familiar gravelly voice is asking. It’s the big guy, shit, it’s Noct’s shield—

Prompto reaches out and shoves Noct off the sidewalk, into the bushes beyond. For a second Noct stumbles, but he heard the voices too. He was already reacting, Prompto realizes as he turns to stare after him. He was reaching for his pocket, and drawing out — is that his wallet?

Then Noct wings his wallet away from the sidewalk and deep into the darkened undergrowth beyond.

Prompto only has a moment to gape before Noct is just — gone. For a second the empty air that Noct only recently occupied is outlined in blue silver, crackling light that gouges a jagged gash out of the dark. Then that, too, is gone, and Prompto is alone on the sidewalk.

A foot and a half in front of him, the front door swings wide, and Gladio nearly steps on him. One of his feet is soaking wet.

“Woah!” Prompto sputters — a genuine response; it always helps to use as many of them as possible when you’re about to lie. “Uh — Gladio, right?” he asks, giving the big guy an uneasy smile. “Um… Are you moving into the complex? Might be a bit of a downgrade from what you’re used to.”

To his surprise, he hears a quiet huff of air from Glasses, just behind Gladio. Ignis, Prompto remembers.

“We are not,” Ignis says crisply, over Gladio's shoulder. “We are merely out seeking Noctis.”

“You guys lost him again?” Prompto says without thinking, and then immediately regrets it in the face of Ignis’ pained expression and Gladio’s hostile one. From the dark beyond the sidewalk, he hears what could either be a falling branch or a huff of silent laughter. “Sorry, I mean — is he okay?”

“It certainly seems that way,” Ignis says drily. “Well, then. I suppose that will be all.”

“Really?” Prompto asks, because he’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut. “You guys don’t wanna like, search my apartment?”

This time, Gladio looks smug. Ignis just looks even more pained.

“Ah, that shall not be necessary,” he says tightly. “But thank you for the offer. Now we really must be on our way. Good evening, Prompto.”

Prompto watches, slightly dazed, as the two drive away. After a moment there’s a rustle, and a ring of keys hurtles out of the bushes.

Instinctively Prompto lifts a hand to catch it. Before it can reach him, though, an entire human being flashes into existence around it. Noct appears in a crackle of power, gilded in a blaze of blue light that spiderwebs over his form before it fades. It’s — it’s — what the fuck. It’s the craziest thing Prompto’s ever seen.

Before, he had to keep his composure in order to deceive Noct’s — coworkers? Servants? Whatever. He had to save face for Ignis and Gladio. This time, though, there’s no one to fool.

“What the heck?” he demands. He grabs Noct by the shoulders and shakes him. “What the heck, dude, what!! What do you mean, you can just — teleport??”

“It’s not really teleportation,” Noct says dismissively, but he’s smirking a little. “It’s more like I’m… uh… ducking in and out of a pocket dimension?”

“What?” Prompto wails. “That’s obviously — I mean that’s — obviously that’s not less cool!!”

“You know Ignis and Gladio broke into your apartment, right?”

“What?” Prompto says again, in an altogether different tone. “I — what? What makes you — oh,” he realizes aloud, playing back Gladio’s smug expression and Ignis’ faintly embarrassed one. Gladio’s foot was wet, too. Prompto probably could have put that one together. “Huh, yeah, they totally did, didn’t they?”

“I left some of my stuff in there,” Noct says. “Which means—” He bites his lip. Prompto, dog tired from the run at this point, starts to lean toward the entrance and then stops when Noct doesn’t follow. Shrugging, he folds downward to sit on the stoop instead.

“Means what?” he prompts. Noct grimaces.

“...means I can’t go back in there,” he confesses. “They’ll be watching this place now, probably. If I go in, I get caught.”

“And what happens then?” Prompto asks, faintly horrified. Noct scowls.

“I don’t get to go on a fishing trip,” he says grimly. Prompto chokes on his next breath.

“PFfh,” he sputters. “What? Fishing? That’s what’s at stake?”

“For a whole week, though,” Noct says, his eyes bright and greedy. Then he frowns. “Well, I guess it would be cool to prove to my dad that I can handle myself,” he admits. “But — no, yeah, the trip is the big one. Like I said, I don’t get a lot of free time.”

Of course not. For all Prompto knows, this could be the first week off of Noct’s life.

“Okay,” he decides impulsively, nodding. “We’re gonna get you that trip, dude.”

“What do you mean, we?”

“Where are you going next?” Prompto asks. “Or, I mean,” he adds, seeing uncertainty and the ghost of embarrassment in Noct’s eyes — “do you have something in mind? Or are you open to suggestions?”

Noct gives him a sharp, considering look and then smirks, slow and measured.

“Sure, I’ll hear you out,” he says coolly. “What’ve you got?”

###

Prompto never thought he’d see this place again.

He found it when he was a kid, five or six maybe, playing in a park near the southern wall. He pocketed his favorite leaves, and threw rocks in the stream to make bridges across, and explored his way downriver until the greenery grew thick and tangled. He was skirting the edge of the wall, wondering if it would hurt to touch or if it would feel smooth against his hand, when he nearly walked right into a slab of plywood. There was a treehouse in the forest.

It didn’t look like anyone lived here; there wasn’t much in the way of furniture. Really it was just four plywood walls with one flat wide piece nailed on top for a roof. Still, there was a fire pit outside, and a stream nearby, and the roof was actually pretty good at keeping the rain out.

(Not too long after, when he confronted the tattoo on his wrist, he would ready himself to move into the treehouse. His parents had never said anything about it, after all. If they’d known, wouldn’t they have explained what it was for? Prompto didn’t know what it was for, but he could tell that it was — wrong, and that it marked him as wrong, somehow. He knew instinctively, without having to ask, that he could never let anyone see. Of course, once he tearfully confessed to his parents, they didn’t kick him out or call the police. They already knew about it, they said, only they had the decency not to bring it up. So after that he didn’t bring it up.)

“It’s,” Prompto says anxiously, gesturing at the shack. “I mean, it’s not exactly luxurious, but it’s, you know. Shelter.”

“This is cool,” Noct says, sounding faintly impressed. “You made this?”

“Found it.”

“Spooky,” Noct observes neutrally. When Prompto scowls at him, he shrugs. “I just mean — if you didn’t make it, who did? And do you think they’re coming back?” he adds, pitching his voice low and sinister. Prompto punches him on the shoulder before remembering that Noct is a prince and yanking his hand back.

“Don’t spook me, dude,” he says warningly. “Not out here in the dark with no door locks. I won’t sleep a wink.”

“I would never,” Noct says innocently. “Here, lemme help you with that.”

Before they left his building, Prompto made a quick stop in at home to pack everything he could think of: blankets and flashlights, hats and hoodies, matches and a newspaper for kindling, six different kinds of snacks, and a dented can of chicken soup, which was the closest thing he could find to a “meal.” It’s not the hardiest of camping gear, but it’s way more than they had to work with in the supply closet.

They spread two of the blankets over the dirt-caked floor, Prompto shuddering about how he’s probably going to have to burn them. It takes more than half of the newspaper torn into strips and loosely balled up, but Prompto manages to coax a fire alight from the sticks and hunks of bark they find scattered around the campsite. They think about trying to prop up the soup can over the fire and decide it’s too risky, opting to slurp it cold instead. Their fingers brush when Noct passes the soup and Prompto flushes, invisible in the flickering firelight. It’s a warm night for the season, which is still much too cold.

“We’re not gonna like, freeze to death, right?” Prompto asks worriedly, pulling another hat over the one he’s already wearing and then reaching out to tug Noct’s down over his ears. “Like, you’d rather lose the bet than freeze to death, right?”

“I guess,” Noct says diffidently. “We won’t freeze, though.”

“...are you sure though.”

Noct sighs, huffs air into his hands.

“I can’t do this for too long,” he says warningly. “It’s, you know. A finite resource.”

Then he cups his hands between them and heat blooms from his palms.

Prompto gapes, astounded. There’s a low, steadily burning flame hovering just above Noct’s fingertips, spitting sparks and filling the cramped little space with buttery warmth.

“Woah,” Prompto says, appropriately awed. He holds his hands up to the flame. It’s hot like fire, and it moves like fire too, flickering up and darting back like snake’s tongues. “So are you just showing off at this point, or what?”

“You were cold!” Noct protests, harried. “You thought you might die of cold.”

“Hmm, I don’t know, that doesn’t really sound like me. See, that sounds pretty needlessly alarmist, and in case you forgot, I am a chill, unflappable guy who never loses his cool.”

“Right,” Noct snickers. “How could I forget.”

When he presses his palms together, the flame winks out, but its warmth lingers.

Chapter Text

They don’t freeze to death in the night, which is nice. Less nice is the morning after. When Prompto wakes up, he’s maybe the coldest he’s ever been.

“Noct,” he croaks to the inert, tightly-swaddled lump beside him. “I can see a light.”

“Don’t go toward it,” Noct mumbles, voice muffled by sleep and at least six blankets.

It takes some doing, but eventually, Prompto coaxes the prince into thrusting a hand out of his nest and conjuring a little ball of flame. Steadily, the treehouse fills with warmth.

The rest of Noct doesn't appear for another half hour or so, by which point Prompto has more or less thawed out. When he does, Prompto can’t hold back a delighted grin. Noct’s face is flushed and his hair is all rumpled and tufty, sticking up at the back like a chocobo’s crest.

Following Prompto’s gaze, Noct scowls.

“Leave me alone,” he grumbles, his voice low and rough with sleep. “Or throw me a hat, at least.”

“Well I think it’s a great look,” Prompto assures him. "You could start a new trend! Chocochick-inspired fashion."

Noct glares without heat as he wrestles his hair back into shape.

The boys take turns venturing out into the brittle winter bramble to pee. It’s early enough that there’s no one else in sight, just the two of them and their shack and the white plumes of their breath. It’s pretty, Prompto decides, in a bleak, bracing sort of way. He stretches hugely and yawns.

“Okay, so this was fun and all,” he says sarcastically, even though he actually kinda means it. “But we can’t sleep here all week. It’s winter. This was maybe a pretty dumb idea, actually.”

“It wasn’t dumb,” Noct disagrees. “You got us through the night, right? Now we have all day to find a better place to sleep.”

Prompto notes the ‘us’ without comment and squirrels it away for further study.

“I guess,” he allows, grudging. “For now, though, let’s get outta here. I gotta get something hot to drink or I’ll literally die.”

“You’re awfully fragile,” Noct observes.

“I’m delicate,” Prompto corrects. “Like a flower. Now are we gonna get hot chocolate or what?”

“Fiiine,” Noct sighs. “But if we’re going out in public, I think I’m gonna need a new disguise.”

###

An hour later, they’re digging through the discount bins at the thrift shop.

Noct can’t use his cards without flagging his position to every Crownsguard in the metropolitan area, so they’re shopping on Prompto’s dime. Unfortunately, that means the budget is not exactly generous. Most of the big-ticket items are unrealistic, but there’s a few gems buried in the bargain bin.

Prompto’s eyes light up as he pulls what looks like a dead muskrat out of a bucket of loose scarves.

“Dude,” Noct says, wrinkling his nose. “Gross.”

“Hey, come on, it’s perfect! Look,” he says eagerly, shaking it off and brushing it out before pulling it gingerly over his head. “Dude, I’m you!”

Sure enough, when Prompto looks up, he’s got straight black hair that hangs at the nape of his neck, with two long locks that fall in front of each ear.

“You can call me Noctis,” he says, in a passable imitation of Noct’s low, husky drawl. “No relation to the Lucian prince.”

Noct sputters inarticulately and then burrows into the same bin. When he comes up for air, he’s clutching a fistful of matted blonde hair.

“Ew,” Prompto groans, horrified. “You’re right, it’s worse when it looks like someone cut it off your own head.”

Noct is already donning the wig. It’s tufty and yellow and ought to make him look completely stupid, but since it’s Noctis, it only makes him look a little silly.

“Wow,” Prompto says admiringly. “It’s like looking in a mirror.”

They try to diversify their disguises, but they keep finding the perfect accessories to help them dress up as each other. Prompto pairs some baggy black cargo pants with a tight black crewneck; Noctis slithers into a pair of skinner-than-skinny jeans and pulls on a tank that bares more of his arms than Prompto’s seen before. Noct is more muscular than he looks, Prompto observes. It’s just a pair of shoulders, but seeing this much of Noct feels… lewd, somehow.

“I’m not trashy, am I?” Prompto asks thoughtfully.

“What? No way. Wait,” Noct adds, starting to grin. “You think I look trashy?”

“Well, let’s not leap to conclusions.”

By the time they leave, they’ve committed to dressing as, “each other but in disguise” — Prompto in a flashy hoodie with his black wig tucked under a baseball cap; Noct swimming in an oversized sweater with his blond bangs combed over his face. Prompto’s pretty sure that he looks like he’s trying out for an unpopular boy band, and yet Noct still looks cute in a dressed-down, Altissian sort of way. So business as usual.

###

They get hot chocolate.

Disguised Prince Prompto gets a double-take from the girl behind the counter. Blonde Bombshell Noctis doesn’t even get a second glance, which amuses them both enormously.

“What next?” Prompto asks, after scalding his tongue on the first sip. Noct smirks at him. “What?” he demands.

“You got whipped cream on your face,” Noct informs him. “And I don’t know,” he goes on, while Prompto scrubs at his mouth. “If I could use my cards, I could just book us a room somewhere, but I guess that's off the table." Noct sighs, apparently oblivious to the effect that book us a room is having on Prompto’s totally overclocked brain. “Hm. I know my dad just approved a bunch of construction in the textiles district… Maybe there’s a warehouse or something we could break into?”

Prompto frowns.

“Hey, here’s a fun question that came to me for no particular reason: if I’m an accessory to a crime but the actual criminal is the prince, do I still get arrested?”

“Only if they catch you,” Noct says lightly. “And I’m not gonna let that happen.”

Prompto’s stomach flips.

“Right,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll, uh. Keep that in mind.”

###

They’ve only walked about halfway when Noct grabs Prompto’s elbow. Prompto jumps.

“Shh,” Noct whispers, as Prompto jumps. “We’re being followed.”

“We’re—”

“Don’t turn around,” Noct hisses, so sharply that Prompto’s head freezes mid-turn.

“I would never,” he lies blatantly, offering Noct a guileless smile. Noct meets it with a disbelieving stare. “Okay, so I both would and was definitely about to, but you stopped me, so… No harm no foul?”

“Sure,” Noct says, but he still sounds tense. Prompto frowns.

“How can you even tell?” he asks. The streets in this part of town aren’t super crowded, but there’s still a lot of pedestrians about. How are you supposed to know who’s tailing you and someone just happens to be walking the same way? Maybe when you’re a prince, you always just have to assume the worst.

“I’ve been watching them for a few blocks now,” Noct murmurs. “Took a few turns and still didn’t shake them.”

“Huh.” Now that Noct mentions it, Prompto had noticed that they seemed to be taking a less-than-efficient path to the warehouse district. He’d just assumed they were taking the scenic route. “Okay, yeah, makes sense. So what do we do?”

Noct grimaces.

“I’m not sure,” he says unhappily. “I could break line of sight with a warp, but people would notice, and we can’t afford the visibility.”

“Would it be the worst thing if people noticed?” Prompto asks hopefully. “In a real fight, it seems like a good way to disappear. Like, they might get between us and the bad guys.”

“In a real combat situation, it’s a good way to get a lot of civilians killed,” Noct says grimly. “The Empire is not worried about collateral damage.”

Prompto’s heart sinks. Of course it was a stupid idea. The whole premise of this exercise is that Noct needs to know how to evade political assassins, and — and — and super-soldiers, or whatever. Of course they can’t just use civilians as a shield.

“It wasn’t stupid,” Noct says, startling Prompto out of his spiral.

“You can’t, like, read my mind, right?” (Because oh my god, if Noct can read his mind, Prompto is going to have to run away to the forest and live out the rest of his days as a hermit).

“No way,” Noct snickers, to Prompto’s all-consuming relief. “But you kinda wear your thoughts on your face.”

“Not sure that’s any better,” Prompto mutters.

“Dude, it’s the best!” Noct says fiercely, and then flushes. “I just mean — mainly I roll with a lot of guys who spent years of their lives training their poker face. It’s kind of a relief to know where I stand with someone for once.”

How can Prompto argue with that?

“Yeah, okay,” he hears himself say, smiling crookedly. “And I mean, um. If you’re ever not sure where my head’s at, you can always just ask. I’m an open book, y’know.”

“Oh, I know,” Noct confirms, smirking a little. Then his gaze flicks back over Prompto’s shoulder, and his expression shutters. “They’re getting closer,” he hisses. “They’re trying to like, herd us, they’re gonna force us where they want us—”

Prompto squares his jaw, suddenly steely with conviction. Noct is out here trying to earn a week off for the first time in his whole miserably over-scheduled life, and some grown-up mall cop is trying to get in the way?

“No way, dude,” he says fiercely. “I got this. I’m gonna distract them.”

“How?” Noct starts to ask, incredulous, and then seems to remember their disguises. “Oh,” he says, a little foolishly, and grins. “Okay. I trust you. I’ll keep an eye on you if I can, but if we lose touch, meet me at, um… Fourteenth and Vine. Okay?”

“That’s okay, your highness to you,” Prompto says imperiously. He gives Noct one last wild grin before glancing back and locking eyes with — well, honestly just as many people as he can; he still has no idea which guys are tailing them. Once he’s scanned the whole crowd, he lets his eyes jolt open with showy realization and then then bolts into an alley.

A few seconds later, there are pounding footsteps in the dark behind him. He’s in a full sprint, or else he’d heave a sigh of relief. They’re coming after him, which means — in all likelihood — that they’re leaving Noct alone.

Prompto reaches the end of the alley and breaks left, back into a crowded street. Before the guys can burst out after him, he drops into a half-crouch behind a stroller that’s parked in line outside a brunch place.

“Sorry,” he mutters to the startled father behind the stroller. “Official, um, Crownsguard business. Just pretend I’m not here.”

When he peers out from behind the stroller, he sees two men in purple jackets striding out from the alley, shooting dangerous glares down the sidewalk. Both of them have thick, mirrored lenses over their eyes, making their faces look sort of insectile. Prompto shudders. It’s dumb. Of course he knows that it’s just a training exercise, but it’s still kinda — well, scary, watching these tall, dangerous men emerge from the dark to hunt him like a dog.

Are there really people out there who want to hurt Noct? The thought fills him with a kind of dumb animal panic — makes him want to bash his head against a wall until the world makes sense again.

Astrals, but that’s lame. Noct is out here learning to actually fight for his life, and Prompto’s ready to wet his pants over a training exercise. Pathetic, he tells himself. Imagine how you’d feel if this was the real thing.

Still, he can’t stop the skin on the back of his neck from prickling, like he’s some helpless little pig and those guys in purple are a couple of big bad wolves, slavering and slobbering at the scent of prey.

Whatever. That must have been enough time for Noct to disappear again. Prompto’s done what he said he would; Noct is off their radar again, which means there’s no reason to keep leading the Crownsguard around by the nose.

Uneasily, Prompto pulls the wig off his head and then pulls the hoodie off, too, for good measure. He rolls the wig into the hoodie and tries to look down the street without moving into the hunters’ line of sight.

“Hey,” he whispers to the dad in line in front of him, who flinches. “—don’t look at me— Sorry, I just need to ask — are those guys looking this way?”

“Uhm,” the stranger says uneasily, and for a moment Prompto regrets having said anything at all. Then the man takes a breath and glances up and down the street. “Coast is clear,” he mutters, keeping his eyes on the baby in the stroller.

“Thanks,” Prompto breathes. He takes the time to flash the guy a grateful smile before he books it around the corner.

###

He finds Noct at 14th and Vine, like they agreed.

Noct sags at the sight of him, looking inordinately relieved. Prompto isn’t sure why Noct looks so worried when Prompto’s the one who was getting all worked up over a training drill, but he can’t say he hates it.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, grinning all over his stupid face. And then, because the endorphins and the adrenaline are making him reckless, he hears himself add, “I missed you.”

Noct rolls his eyes.

“Who wouldn’t?” he asks, though the tips of his ears have gone slightly pink. “Now can we get out of here?”

“Please,” Prompto says fervently. “I don’t wanna shit-talk the Crownsguard but honestly, Noct, those guys are kinda scary.”

Noct frowns.

“Did you see what they were wearing?” he asks. He looks perfectly at ease, but there was something a little off about his tone, like the words were too clipped.

“Yeah, they were big into purple. Coats, shoes, shades, the whole thing.”

Noct’s frown deepens.

“Weird,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t get a good look so I wasn’t sure, but if you saw it too, I mean… Those aren’t Crownsguard fatigues.”

“Huh?”

“Crownsguard wear black,” Noct explains. Prompto shrugs.

“Maybe your dad sent some of ‘em out in plainclothes?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Noct says. But his tone is just as carefully neutral as before.

Prompto can tell that Noct is anxious, but he doesn’t know why. They're still inside the wall, after all, safe in the heart of Lucis, so what is there to worry about? He wants to help, of course; he’d love to make Noct feel more secure and is just completely inequipped to make it happen.

Prompto looks sideways at Noct for a minute and then shrugs.

“I’ll be honest, dude,” he says, rolling over and showing his weakness. “Those guys freaked me out a little. What d’you say we get off the street for a bit? We can, you know, duck out of sight for a minute and then find our real spot once I’ve had a sec to catch my breath.”

“Yeah,” Noct says, sounding audibly relieved. “Yeah, if you want, I don’t mind.”

“Thanks, dude,” Prompto says, shoving a friendly shoulder into Noct’s side. “Let’s do it.”

###

They hop the fence of the first empty construction site they see, so it’s not like they have time to be particularly discerning. Luckily, the warehouse they land happens to be pretty great.

Which isn’t to say that it’s luxurious. The ground floor is bare concrete, and when Noct insists that they retreat upstairs “for security,” so the noisily creaking stairs can warn them of any intruders) it’s even worse, it’s even worse: rough, unfinished wood gives you a splinter if you look at it too hard. The walls are peeling away to bare beams of rusted rebar, and the ceiling is all exposed clouds of fluffy pink insulation.

Still, it keeps the wind out, and there’s a working outlet where Prompto can charge his phone. A few of the flickering light fixtures are still hooked up to power. Noct even finds a clunky, oversized space heater in a dusty corner on the first floor.

“There’s no way we can move this thing,” Prompto points out, reasonably. “It’s way way way too big. It’s bigger than me, dude.”

“Yeah?” says Noct, who’s apparently taking that as a challenge. “Well, it’s not bigger than me.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Prompto pleads, and then stands around uselessly wringing his hands as Noct shucks off his hoodie and wraps his arms around the heater.

The muscles in Noct’s neck flex and strain, but the heater doesn’t budge, obviously. It’s gotta be like, six hundred pounds. Prompto winces and, in the hopes of sparing Noct the embarrassment of a witness to his failure, averts his eyes — until a flutter of light draws his gaze back up.

The heater is flickering, crackling all over with a hundred hairline threads of blue light. It looks sort of like it’s undergoing some cataclysmic electrical shock, except that Noct is still wrapped around it and seems totally fine. Maybe half a second later, the heater is gone.

Prompto gapes.

“You blew it up???” he demands, in a full-on shout. Noct fails to suppress an unflattering snort.

“I just put it somewhere else,” he snickers as he straightens up, brushing sawdust off his knees. “Remember that pocket dimension I told you about?”

“Yeah, you could say that I haven’t stopped thinking about it since,” Prompto says drily.

“It’s mostly for weapons and stuff,” Noct explains. “And for phasing. But I mean, my fishing rod’s in there. Some snacks. Whatever I need but don’t want to carry.”

“You’ve got a magic closet in a parallel universe and you still let me carry all our stuff on my back all day?”

Guilt flashes over Noct’s face.

“I didn’t think of it,” he admits. “Sorry. I’m not used to, um… Never mind. I’ll think of it next time.”

###

After spending about six hours playing phone games in an unfurnished room, Prompto’s clawing at the walls.

“I’m going kinda nuts here,” he admits to Noct, who is clearly having the opposite experience. Half-wrapped in a blanket and sprawled out over a pile of hoodies, Noct is full-on blissed out. His dark eyes are half-lidded, the lean muscle of his forearms slack and loose — all coiled power in perfect stillness, like a lioness in repose.

...Okay, Prompto definitely needs to get some energy out. He’s going stir crazy maybe — okay, definitely — and it’s making his thoughts go in weird directions. He jolts out of his own blanket cocoon and springs unsteadily to his feet.

“Mh?” Noct asks sleepily, leaning back a little to look up at him. “Nuts how?”

“Nuts like, I don’t think I’ve sat still for this long in years.”

“Yeah,” Noct agrees, eyes creased with pleasure. “Isn’t it great?”

“For you, maybe!!” Prompto shrills. “Me, I gotta go for a run like, yesterday.”

“We did,” Noct points out. Then he bolts upright, looking alarmed. “Wait,” he says.

“...For what?”

“For — I mean — it’s a security risk. Like, Specs probably has the guard out looking for you, too. And we still don’t know who those two weirdos were who— I just mean—” Noct grimaces, looks at his feet. “I don’t want you out there alone,” he mutters.

“So you… wanna come with me?” Prompto asks hopefully.

“No,” Noct says darkly. “That’s no good, either. If we lose this spot, we’re back to freezing our asses off in the park. Is that what you want?”

“You know that it’s not,” Prompto says dutifully, and sighs. After spending a day jumping at shadows, living in constant fear of a creak on the stair, Prompto’s antsy and more than a little frantic. He just wants to move. He’s ready to gnaw his way through the floor like a freaking gerbil. But — not at Noct’s expense.

Prompto knows what’s at stake. Noct — the most laidback guy Prompto’s ever met — was born into an endless vortex of appointments and expectations, and now he’s been offered a whole week of freedom. That’s the priority, the light at the end of the tunnel. The whole reason Prompto’s here is because he wants to help.

Oh, yeah, an inner voice mocks. That's the oooonly reason. No self-interest involved whatsoever.

Prompto hushes it. First and foremost, he’s here for Noct, and he’s prepared to make the occasional sacrifice. Of course leaving the hideout in broad daylight would be an unacceptable risk.

“Never mind,” he sighs, all melodramatic resignation. “I can live without.” Then he collapses backwards onto his blanket pile, doing an overwrought show of despondence to mask his very genuine despair. It’s been years since he went a day without running.

He flings a theatrical hand over his brow and then darts a glance up at Noct. To his embarrassment, Noct isn’t laughing. To the contrary, he’s studying him thoughtfully.

“Is there nothing you can do in here?” Noct asks seriously.

“What, like, calisthenics?” Prompto snickers. “Ehh,” he says. “I’m not — not really an athlete, you know. I’m not that strong or, like, disciplined. When I get too tired, I’ll just give up. That’s why I road run. You can’t give up halfway if you’re still three miles away from your house.”

Noct considers that.

“Okay, so you don’t just wanna jumping jacks for two hours,” he deadpans, making Prompto snort. “Makes sense, sounds boring. So… What if I help?”

“Help how?”

Noct shrugs.

“We could do, like… some training. Gladio would probably buy me dinner for a week if he found out I trained without him around to force me into it.”

“What kind of training?” Prompto asks, uncertain. Noct gives him a slow, cocky smile, with just a hint of a challenge behind it.

“What do you think?”

###

Ten minutes later they’re squaring off, armed with a couple of wooden swords that Noct pulled out of empty air. (“I usually use a real one,” he said nonchalantly as he handed one over. “But I figure you’ll feel more comfortable starting with training wheels.”)

“Go ahead,” Noct says, flashing another lazy grin. “Hit me.”

“This isn’t a trick, right?” Prompto demands for what must be the eighth time. Noct gives him A Look. “Come on,” he whines. “I just mean — bruising the prince has gotta be a felony at least.”

“If that was true, Gladio would be in jail for the next thousand years.”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Cause that’s Gladio.” And then, in response to Noct’s flat, uncomprehending stare: “You know. Gladio, he’s—” Prompto gestures vaguely. “Important.”

Noct’s forehead furrows.

“You’re important,” he points out, which, to Prompto’s unmitigated shame, goes through him like a sledgehammer through sponge cake.

“Yeah, I really don’t think—”

“Don’t be stupid,” says Noct, who’s frowning in earnest now. “You’re my friend. I mean — that’s not why you’re — it’s not like it matters that—” He scowls, starts over. “I just mean, you don’t have to think about it like that. You think I hang out with every guy who gets locked in a closet with me?”

“Y— yeah. Yes.”

“Well, technically you’re right,” Noct admits. “But there’s only ever been one of them. Now come on,” he says impatiently, as Prompto flushes crimson. “If it helps,” he adds, “there’s no way you’re gonna land a hit on me. This is not my first rodeo.”

Prompto can’t say no to Noct when he sounds like this. Well, okay, he can’t say no to Noct no matter how he sounds, actually. But it’s not because a prince’s orders may in fact be legally binding. There’s something irresistible about the way Noct sounds he’s showing off a little, drawling and puffing his chest and smirking in that soft, sly way of his, like he’s got a secret. Prompto holds out for another second and then folds like a card table.

“Fiiine,” he sighs, looking away to hide his inexplicable blush. “But if the king has me executed or something, that’s on your conscience.”

“I can live with that.”

###

“So what does this look like?” Prompto asks, shifting anxiously on his feet. “Are you gonna like, teach me a move? Am I drilling the basics? Will there be a montage, or do I have to provide my own?”

“I can definitely teach you a move,” Noct says seriously, with a sly gleam in his eye. “But it might make sense to start with the basics. We’ll see if you earn a montage,” he adds, with a careless smirk that makes Prompto sway on his feet.

“Right,” he says faintly.

“Go on, then,” Noct tells him. “Hit me.”

The scene that ensues cannot fairly be called a fight. Prompto swings wildly; he feints left and darts right and swings again. But Noct is like smoke. The moment Prompto’s wooden sword draws near, Noct vanishes in a blaze of light and reappears over his shoulder, nodding sagely with his hand on his chin, and critiques Prompto’s technique.

“This is— should I be embarrassed?” Prompto bursts out after a few rounds, already sweating. Noct freezes and turns.

“Shit, are you?” he asks guiltily. “Or — sorry, I mean, no, I don’t think you should. I mean, I’ve got ten years of sword training and also magic, so it makes sense that—” Noct hesitates again, changes tracks. “I thought the plan was to run you around? Since you couldn’t go running?”

“Oh yeah,” Prompto says, remembering. “Totally. Yeah, okay, I appreciate it, actually. Uh. Thanks.”

Eventually, after running Prompto around so thoroughly that he feels like he must have covered at least six miles in fruitless footwork and misdirected bullrushes, Noct actually does teach him some stuff. Prompto’s not sure if he learns anything that qualifies as “a move,” but he does learn how to disarm a guy by whacking his hand with the end of a stick.

After a while, the situations have grown so specifically relevant that Prompto can’t help but wonder if this was Noct’s plan, all along.

“Okay, say you’re backed into a corner,” Noct says, advancing. “There’s two of them, and they’re both armed. What do you do?”

“Fall to my knees and beg for mercy?”

“Close,” Noct says patiently, biting off a grin. “Assuming I’m there with you, the answer is: get their attention without escalating the situation, so I can take them out.”

“Got it,” Prompto says, a little dizzily. “I’ll, uh. Make a note of it.”

It’s kinda distressing, how freaked out Noct was by the guys that followed them earlier. After all, Noct already knew that there were at least a hundred Crownsguard out hunting him. But as soon as he noticed there was anyone actually watching them, he immediately decided that they were dangerous enemies, totally unrelated to the city-wide search, because they were wearing the wrong color jacket. How paranoid must Noct be?

Or… not paranoid, maybe. Paranoia is when you’re afraid of things that aren’t actually a threat. But Noct’s dad, the literal king, is so scared for his son that he’s thrown him out to the streets, alone, just to prove that he can survive. Noct is afraid, but for good reason. The things he fears are real.

...So what makes Prompto so sure that those guys out there were Crownsguard? This is Noct’s world, not Prompto’s. Noct is the one who knows how it all fits together. If Noct is afraid, maybe Prompto should be too.

Noct rushes in; Prompto hefts his wooden sword, and then hesitates. It’s too much to take in, much too much and much too fast. It’s enough to make his head spin. Maybe he needs a break.

Abruptly, Noct heaves a sigh and flops over onto the nearest heap of blankets.

“Noct?”

“I’m tired,” Noct huffs, suddenly sounding very young. “Can we take a break?”

Weird. The moment Prompto started to think that he might need a minute, Noct demanded one. Was it a coincidence? Or is it possible that Noct is paying attention to him and adjusting accordingly, just like Prompto does for Noct?

Naw, Prompto tells himself easily. Don’t be stupid. He’s a prince, not some ordinary classmate. You just got lucky. But hey, there’s nothing wrong with that.

“Hey,” Noct says, from his spot on the ground. Prompto peers down at him.

“What’s up, buddy?”

Noct’s mouth twitches.

“Sorry that this is all so… you know,” he says.

“Do I know?” Prompto asks. Noct makes a face at him.

“...so intense,” he finishes, wry and just a touch self-conscious. Prompto trips over himself in his haste to counter-apologize.

“Oh, no way, dude! I mean — I’m sorry I’m so useless; I’m sure I’m no good to train with, and — it’s like you said, right? You’ve been learning this stuff for years, so of course you were always gonna be—”

“No, not that,” Noct cuts in. “Not just the training. You’re doing okay, by the way,” he adds, with grudging respect that Prompto can only hope is genuine. “Your reflexes aren’t bad. But — no, I meant… everything else. Spending your winter break on the run, hiding out in a weird old warehouse.”

“What, that?” Prompto asks, relieved. He’d been starting to worry that he’d done something wrong. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not, though,” Noct says, frowning a little. “It’s — this would’ve been a nightmare on my own, dude. I would’ve cracked on the first day. Now that I think about it,” he adds, eyes narrowing, “that’s probably what my dad wanted me to learn: that I’m lost without my retainers, and if I want to survive in the real world, I need to keep them close, or whatever. He never meant for me to win the trip at all,” he realizes, sounding a little wounded and a lot outraged. “Ugh, I should have known when he offered up a whole week; he’d never let me take that much time off.”

“You think?”

“But that’s not the point,” Noct says impatiently. “I just mean — you’re not used to all this political stuff, and I just showed up at your door and dropped you in the deep end. And now we’re being followed by people who are probably Crownsguard but might be—” He cuts that sentence short and changes tracks. “And I know it’s not — comfortable,” he says instead. “Spending your winter break in an unfurnished warehouse with a guy you barely know.”

“I think it’s probably time to stop saying stuff like that,” Prompto says firmly, because he’s always been just a little too honest. “Sure, we didn’t grow up together, but — after everything we’ve got through, I think we know each other okay.”

Noct’s gaze jolts up, locks onto Prompto’s. There’s surprise in his storm-blue eyes, and pleasure, too.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

“And anyway, you just really don’t have to be sorry,” Prompto goes on. “If you hadn’t showed up, I’d be sleeping in a bed, sure, but I’d also be spending the break—” Ugh, the word alone sounds so pathetic. “—on my own, mostly,” he tries. “And instead we’re here, and I’m having fun, dude. Not because I get off on danger or anything,” he adds hastily. “The danger is definitely not a selling point. But I’m having fun hanging with you,” he says, grinning a little helplessly. He knows he’s being too open; everyone tells him he’s desperate, that he makes it too easy, but he just thinks Noct should know. “It’s — you know — fun to hang out. In any circumstances. So I’m game for the other stuff too.”

“Ah, ‘the other stuff,’ like camping with no camping gear in the middle of winter and getting chased by Niffs.”

Prompto flinches for — unrelated reasons, and Noct pumps the brakes.

“Sorry,” he says, looking genuinely frustrated. “I’m not — I don’t mean to scare you. It could totally just be a couple of Crownsguard in disguise.”

“But you think it isn’t?”

“I do,” Noct says seriously.

Prompto grimaces. He’d worried about what he’d have to say once they actually confronted the issue. But there’s no getting around it.

“Then,” he says reluctantly. “I mean, should we talk about… Should we maybe call it here? Cause if you’re really in danger, then that’s — listen, I know how bad you need some time off,” he says. “And I’m ready to put in some work to get you there. But let’s — I don’t know, fake a kidnapping and steal a car and sneak off to a cabin for a few days, right? Let’s not get kidnapped by war criminals.”

Noct snorts, and then sobers.

“You think it’s too high-risk,” he says matter-of-factly. Prompto throws his hands up.

“I don’t think anything! I don’t know the first thing about your world. I’m asking if you think it’s too high-risk. Cause if there is a they, they’re here for you.”

Noctis frowns. He doesn’t sigh or whine or sag into himself, because unlike Prompto, Noct is a pillar of dignity. But he looks like he kinda wants to.

“But,” Prompto adds, wishing he had more to contribute. “I trust you, dude! I’m not telling you what to do, I’m just floating an option. If you think you’re really in danger, we can always just tap out now.”

Noct’s face smooths.

“No way, dude,” he says, reverting back to his usual cocky nonchalance. “We’re off the streets. What, are they gonna search every building in Insomnia?”

“They,” Prompto quotes ominously. Noct rolls his eyes.

“I just mean — we’re fine. Even if they did somehow find us, it’s what, two guys? I could take out two guys like that in my sleep,” he says — not boastfully, like it’s just a fact. “But it definitely won’t come to that.”

“And if it does?”

“Then next time, we don’t split up,” Noct says, cold fire blazing behind his eyes. “You stick with me. And I don’t let them near you.”

Chapter Text

Then they play videogames for four days.

After that last talk, Prompto kind of expected things to escalate. Instead, time slows to a crawl. The hours stretch stickily between them, easy and uneventful and mostly extremely fun, except when Noct’s mood turns suddenly stormy because he forgot to eat lunch. (The first time it happens, Prompto spirals over the idea that he's done something horribly wrong. The third time it happens, he's passing a bag of chips before the prince can finish his first long, discontented sigh.)

Fortunately, Noct stashed a lifetime supply of snacks in his pocket dimension, which Prompto learns is called The Armiger and can hold both holy relics and hot cheetos.

For three days, they eat a lot of snacks. Every morning after his fourth bags of chips, Prompto gets a little frantic; then every afternoon, he “trains” with Noct and is left too exhausted to have any room left for panic. (He probably smells heinous, but there's nothing he can do about that.)

And the training is getting easier. Or — no, it’s not that. Prompto’s getting better. It’s not like he’s holding his own against Noct, obviously. Noct almost never attacks, opting instead to evade Prompto’s advances in glittering flares of magic. But Prompto’s getting closer. Every day, the space between his blade and its target gets just a little narrower.

###

The next time Prompto surges forward to jab at Noctis, he swings his weight back and kills his momentum before the motion’s halfway done. Noct is already vanishing, incinerated by a crackle of blue light, when Prompto pivots on a point and flings himself — not just his spindly little sword but his whole spindly little body — back in the direction he came.

Half a breath later, Noct materializes behind where Prompto’s shoulder should have been, if he’d continued on his trajectory. But he didn’t. When Noct’s edges solidify, Prompto is mid-air, maybe a millimeter away. He hurtles into Noct at full force.

Prompto might not know how to throw a punch, but as projectiles go, at least he’s fairly pointy. Both of them clatter to the ground in a jangle of bony limbs.

When they hit the ground, the air whuffs out of Noct in an expulsive burst. Somehow Prompto is still on top, and for a moment he thinks he’s actually, finally won a round—

—and then Noct’s right foot hooks under his left ankle and Noct’s left knee slams into his right hip, and the world turns over. When the stars clear Prompto is flipped on his back, vaguely dazed, belly-up like an overturned beetle.

Prompto has never before considered just how little he knows about close combat. Why would he? It’s not like it’s ever come up. Sure, it might have been cool to throw one of his bullies over his shoulder or something, but even if he could, they’d just get their buddies. At the end of the day, there’s only so much that one scrawny kid can do against a whole army of meatheads. So why bother?

Looking up at Noct, though, he thinks he kinda sees the appeal. With Noct’s knees crushing his hips and Noct’s ankles hooked over his knees, there’s nowhere to go. Could Gladio slip out of a hold like this? Could Noct?

“Wow,” Noct says huskily, his face just a few inches above Prompto’s. “You actually caught me off guard.”

Prompto stares, not yet convinced but already a little starry-eyed at the possibility.

“You don’t mean it,” he says, in a voice that says, tell me you mean it. “You just threw me a bone.”

“I really didn’t!” Noct insists, sitting back on his heels and grinning. Then he seems to realize where he is. He flushes and springs to his feet, and then leans down to pull Prompto up after him.

“To be fair,” Noct adds, once they’re both upright. “If this was a real fight, you wouldn’t survive long enough to learn my moves.”

“Well, thanks for sparing my life, I guess.”

“You’re very welcome.”

###

On the morning of the last day, Prompto wants to celebrate.

Noct is splayed over a blanket pile, utterly inert. Prompto hasn't seen him move in at least six hours. It's confounding, and also deeply unrelatable. What is Noct, a snake? He just eats the occasional meal and then lies down for a month?

“Noct!” Prompto says again, louder than before. This time, Noct stirs.

“Mh?”

I said I want to celebrate!”

“It’s too risky,” Noct says vaguely. He sounds half asleep.

“Life is full of risk!” Prompto exclaims, with all the passionate fervor of a man who hasn’t seen the sky in four days. “Every time we get out of bed, we take a risk. Remember the chasm?”

“I remember the chasm,” Noct snorts.

The chasm is the splintering hole in the floor that the two of them diligently navigate around. It’s been there ever since Noct got a little too enthusiastic in a training session and kinda threw Prompto across the room. It was an accident, of course. When the rotted-out floorboards collapsed with a splintering crunch, Noct warped in and pulled Prompto to safety before anyone could fall through the floor. (They don’t like to talk about that part.) Then they called a break on training and spent the rest of the evening lying very still.

“Even in our own home, our lives are at risk,” Prompto presses on. “So why not get out there? Why not see the world? Why not eat a hot meal for the first time in our young lives?’

“First time in six days,” Noct mutters, but Prompto can see his resolve weakening.

“Just one curry,” he wheedles. “We can get it to go and bring it right back! I’ll go pick it up, if you don’t want to,” he says slyly, because by now he knows that there’s no way Noct will let him go alone.

“No,” Noct says immediately, and the one word is enough to make warmth bloom from Prompto’s belly. “No way. If you’re going, I’m going.”

“We don’t have to,” Prompto says. “We can wait another day, if you think we need to. I trust your judgment, and I’ll… survive,” he goes on, with quiet, understated nobility. “If it’s what you think is best.”

He darts a woeful glance at Noct. Noct laughs in his face.

“I know what you’re up to, you snake,” he snickers. “Astrals, you’re such a piece of work. Fine, you melodramatic, manipulative weasel. I fold. Let’s get you your curry.”

“Well, if that’s what you want,” Prompto says sweetly, and then sputters as Noct wings a balled-up blanket at his head.

###

It’s a perfect day out. It’s still winter outside of their walls; the air is cold and sweet, and there’s brilliant columns of sunlight lancing down through the patchwork clouds. Prompto skips over the sidewalk, so bright and buoyant that he feels like he might burst into song. Heck, what’s holding him back? He opens his mouth—

“Don’t sing,” Noct says, from directly behind him. Prompto whirls.

“How did you—”

“You were seriously about to sing?” Noct asks, smirking. “I was just covering my bases. Should’ve known. Don’t,” he says firmly. “You’re disguised as me, remember? Prince Noctis doesn’t sing.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s cause he never had anything to sing about,” Prompto sniffs. “Until now, of course. Have you even seen this sky? Have you smelled this air? Can you feel this breeze? Even your dried-up crusty heart’s gotta have something to say about this.”

“What, this old thing?” Noct asks drily. “No way. You’d have better odds getting my dad to throw away the cane and tap dance.”

“D’you think he would?” Prompto gasps. “Man, I shacked up with the wrong Lucis.”

“Shh,” Noct hisses, darting a nervous glance over his shoulder. “Language.”

“Sorry,” Prompto says, shamefaced. Noct gives him a tolerant look.

“Let’s keep a low profile,” he says firmly. “Okay?”

“Okay!”

###

Prompto’s favorite curry place is only ten blocks away, so they walk it. Prompto’s never loved Insomnia more than he does today. Here he is, an unwashed street rat boasting six days of training with nary a shower, stinking to high hell in a completely awful dollar-store wig and a blindingly neon hoodie, and the pedestrians he walks past are so jaded that they don’t even give him a second glance.

They pass through a tree-lined street and Prompto just breathes it in: the pavement under his feet, the smell of pine and the musk of damp earth, billowing plumes of Fresh Linen detergent wafting from a steam vent, and and below it all the pulse and churn of the city’s beating heart, a thousand strangers streaming past him, alive and awake and aware. The curious liberation in his disguise, and the anonymity it lends him. Noct a solid constant on his left, the presence so familiar by now that it feels kind of like they’re still alone, just the two of them, except that they’ve moved their solitary pod out into the world where they can see the sun and smell the air.

“This rules, dude,” he says. He waits for Noct’s inevitable snort and grins when he hears it.

“What, walking to get takeout?”

“Yeah!” he says emphatically. “It feels great out here. You really don’t feel it?” he asks, shrinking a little. He’d assumed they both needed the air.

Noct studies him, and then a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s not bad,” he says.

###

There’s a line at the curry place, which is annoying, but whatever. They’ve come this far, right?

Luckily, it doesn’t take long to get to the front. Prompto’s only halfway through placing their order (it’s his favorite spot, so he insisted on treating) when he feels Noct’s hand on his elbow.

“What,” he says, turning. And then he sees it: a flash of metallic purple.

Behind Noct — like, right behind Noct, looming just over his shoulder — is a man in purple sunglasses and a purple jacket.

Prompto’s vocal chords stiffen like leather. His mouth is still open but it’s just — breathing, mostly, and only doing a C+ job at that.

“Uh,” says the girl behind the counter, glancing between him and Noct. “So… What name was that under?”

“Crius,” Noct tells her. “Thanks. We pick it up over there?”

“Yup, that’s how it works.”

“Thanks,” Prompto manages, though he’s pretty sure it comes out a little strangled.

“Hi,” he hears the curry girl saying to the guys behind them, as Noct steers him firmly away. “So what can I get— ookay, got it, nothing, I guess. Um, sorry about that, ma’am, what can I get you?”

The purple suits didn’t even maintain the pretense that they were here to order. Which means they’re just — coming after Noct. In public. Now, immediately behind them.

“Prompto,” Noct mutters. Prompto darts a frantic look toward him. “We gotta lead them away from civilians,” he says quietly. “If they take hostages, we’re screwed.”

If they take hostages. Man, Noct really does live in a different world. When Prompto’s scared, he’ll run toward a crowd. There’s safety in numbers, and usually, the people beating on him don’t want any witnesses. But when Noct’s back is to the wall, he isolates himself — not to hide, but to find a strategic position, where he can cut loose without racking up any collateral damage.

Is Prompto just another potential hostage? Is he an ally, or a liability? He really, really doesn’t want to drag Noct down, but even after all their play-fighting, he’s not sure he could get away if one of those guys grabbed him. Noct would tell him if he wanted him to split, right?

“Okay,” Noct says, nearly startling Prompto off his feet. “Here’s okay, I think.” He gives Prompto a crooked grin and slips something into the pocket of his hoodie. “Secret weapon," he says, and actually winks. “Don’t use it unless you have to.”

Prompto goggles at him, too freaked out to string together a functional sentence.

“Remember,” Noct says calmly. “Distract, don’t escalate.”

Then he flicks Prompto on the forehead, ducks behind a low concrete wall and warps out of sight.

Prompto can hear the footsteps behind them quickening. The purple squad is getting closer. He reaches numbly into his pocket and pulls out the prince’s secret weapon.

It’s Noct’s phone.

Prompto almost snorts. And Noct calls him dramatic? Speeding his own pace to a brisk jog, he turns off airplane mode and clicks into Noct’s missed calls, letting it ring a couple times before he hangs up. Then he flips the ringer on and full-on bolts down the alley.

Behind him, he can hear the pound of booted feet.

“Stop,” a low voice commands.

“Can I help you?” he calls breathlessly over his shoulder.

“Stop or I will shoot your legs.”

Well, that will definitely do it. Prompto stops short, a puppet whose strings have been cut.

“Sorry,” he starts to say as he turns, for lack of anything better. These guys are really Niffs, aren’t they? Prompto’s heart throbs. The skin on his wrist itches. His voice hitches a little as he starts to say it again, “sorry, I’m—”

And then his phone rings.

The spies (or whatever) are maybe twenty feet away. At the sound, both their faces snap toward his pocket.

“Sorry,” he says guiltily, for a third time. His heart is thrashing in his ribs like it’s trying to break out. “I — that’s my retainer,” he tries, on the off chance that they still think he’s Noct.

The Niffs don’t press him, or try to argue. They don’t react at all.

“He checks in every hour,” Prompto starts to say, shoving through the dizziness. “If I don’t pick up, he’ll—”

Then he freezes, cutting that sentence off mid-word, as though he’s accidentally said too much. For a moment he fears that he’s been too unsubtle, that they’ll get suspicious. Then the phone rings again, and the guy on the left — whose glasses are more red than purple — clenches a fist.

“Pick it up,” Red Shades snaps. “Tell him that all is well.”

“I—” he darts a fearful glance between them. Purple Suit raises his arm and at the end of it is a gun, this guy is literally pointing a gun at him. Prompto has the strangest urge to giggle.

“Okay!” he says desperately, and picks up.

“Your highness? Noct, are you all right? I did not expect to—”

“Hey, Specs,” Prompto says, with somewhat manic friendliness. “It’s me, your favorite fancy boy.”

“N— Prompto?”

“No, not at all,” Prompto says, wearing a fixed, frantic smile. “No, yeah, everything’s fine.”

There’s a short pause, and then Ignis speaks, weighty and considered.

“If you are in duress, end the call now.”

“Okay, well, I should go, Specs,” Prompto says vaguely. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll talk to you soon. Love you too.”

And he hangs up.

“Sorry, guys,” he says, flashing the evil supersoldiers a guilty smile. “Retainers, am I right?”

Then there’s a flash of blue light.

Red Shades, the one with the gun, staggers and sways like he just took a blow to the head. His comrade Purple Suit lurches forward just in time to avoid Noct’s blade, which whistles harmlessly behind his head.

Now or never, Prompto thinks to himself. He doesn’t have his wooden sword, but he’s not useless. He darts in close to the still-swaying Red Shades, folds backward and kicks out at the guy’s hand. To his absolute astoundment, the gun rattles from his grasp and skitters away over the asphalt.

Prompto stares after it, momentarily speechless, until it occurs to him that he should probably go pick it up before someone else does. He breaks for it, but he’s too slow — Purple Suit snags him by the collar and yanks him back.

From this close Prompto can see the guy’s face. It’s completely expressionless. No one’s home behind his eyes. It makes Prompto want to peel off his own skin.

“Show yourself,” Purple Suit says flatly, to the surrounding dark. “Or I kill the double.”

“D—don’t,” Prompto tries to shout, but probably only whimpers. “I’m — it’s okay.” He’s not sure how everything got so bad so fast, but he’s pretty sure it’s his fault, and he’s really sure that he would rather die than get Noct killed.

Then two things happen very quickly.

First, a sword hurtles toward them, whistling through the narrow gap between Prompto and his captor. Prompto’s got maybe a second to brace himself before Noct materializes between them, knocking Prompto clear and then dropping low to whirl into a fighting stance. Purple Suit’s mouth stretches into a wide, flat facsimile of a smile, but his eyes don’t change at all.

Second, there’s a whfff of compressed air, and Purple Suit drops like a sack of potatoes.

Purple Suit’s purple shades shatter as his face collides with the asphalt. And he seems to have acquired a few new piercings. Six of them, to be exact, sprouting from his back like he’s started growing feathers.

Noct stays crouched for a moment, humming with lethal intent. Then he throws his hands up.

“What?” he demands, gesturing at the newly unconscious Niff. “Why? Did you do this?”

“No way,” Prompto denies automatically. Then he remembers the phone call he made and cringes. “Uh. Actually.. Maybe? In a manner of speaking?”

Noct looks at the phone in Prompto’s hands and then back up at him. The look in his eyes is of utter betrayal.

“I thought we were gonna die!” Prompto protests helplessly. In the background, footsteps echo from both ends of the alley. They’re trapped.

Prompto peers over Noct’s shoulder and gives Ignis a helpless little wave.

“Prompto,” Ignis greets him, inclining his head.

“What’s up, Iggy?”

Noct is glaring at someone behind Prompto’s shoulder.

“I had it under control,” Noct says sullenly.

“Right,” Gladio chuckles. “You were just gonna murder two guys in broad daylight in the middle of the city and, what, ditch the bodies? All part of a day’s work.”

“I could have handled it,” Noct insists, bristling. Prompto frowns.

“You shouldn’t have to, though,” he points out. “Sorry,” he adds, as Noct turns his glare on him. “I just mean. I don’t know, dude. I guess probably you’re gonna have to kill people at some point, but — we’re like, sixteen, dude.”

“You’re sixteen,” Noct snaps. “I don’t get to be sixteen.” Prompto flinches and the sags.

“Well, that sucks,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry I screwed up your fishing trip. I was just scared.”

Instantly, Noct softens.

“No way,” he says, doing a fast 180. “No, you’re fine. I mean — I’m sorry. That was crazy, I should never have put you in— You were probably right, earlier; we should have just called it when I realized who was tailing us.”

“Excuse me,” Ignis cuts in, in a voice like folded steel. “Exactly how long ago did you realize who was tailing you?”

“Uhh,” says Noct. “A… few minutes before we called for help?”

Ignis raises one perfectly manicured eyebrow.

“We will discuss that when you are safely home,” he says. “Since we received Prompto’s cry for help, His Royal Majesty has been beside himself with worry.”

“Sorry,” Prompto squeaks.

“We’ll give Prompto a ride home though, right?” Noct asks. Ignis gives him a look. “What?” Noct demands. “He just had a traumatic experience.”

Ignis considers that and seems to come around.

“Yes,” he says, “of course we’ll give Prompto a ride home,. Now come along, the both of you. We’ll show you to the car.”

###

“I”m really sorry dude,” Prompto says miserably.

He's in the backseat of Ignis’ car, acutely aware that he's way too sweaty to be allowed in a car this nice. They're probably going to have to fumigate to get the smell out. And now that he’s had some time to wrap his head around things, he’s realized that it’s absolutely, completely his fault that they got caught — both by the Niffs and by the Crownsguard. If it wasn’t for his stupid, selfish whim, they could have laid low for one more night, and then they would have won the bet and could call Iggy for pickup and ride safely home, unmolested by Imperial spies.

How could he have been so reckless? He’d just really honestly believed that nothing would go wrong. What were the odds of bumping into trouble, he’d thought? A classic tale of hubris. He was just so stir crazy that he wasn’t thinking straight. And it’s not like he can ever think straight when he’s with Noct.

“I screwed up,” he adds, hanging his head. “I just wanted to get out, but I should have — I shouldn’t have dragged you into it. I could have got you killed,” he moans. “I don’t—”

“What are you, stupid?” Noct asks him. (In the front seat, Gladio snorts.)

“Uh,” Prompto says. He’d asked himself the same question, but he has a feeling that Noct means it differently.

“I put you in danger,” Noct says, slow, like he’s talking to a preschooler. “You’re not the one with like, assassins after you. I dragged you into my mess. You’re the one who should be pissed.”

“But your week off—”

“I just had it!” Noct says fiercely. Then he turns red and glares out the window. “I just mean,” he says, ostensibly to the scenery blurring by. “I definitely would have liked to catch some fish, but what I really needed was a break. A few days where no one needed anything from me, and I wasn’t late for anything, and I couldn’t disappoint anyone. Where I could just — be.”

Prompto gives him a sideways glance. Noct is still looking out the window, but he looks serious. He doesn’t look like he’s lying to protect Prompto’s feelings or anything.

“I guess we did just straight kick it for five days,” Prompto admits. His blood sparks and fizzes when Noct gives him a slow, lazy smile.

“Yeah.”

In the front seat, Ignis clears his throat.

“We’ve arrived,” he says crisply.

Prompto sags. Astrals, it’s only been a week but he’s really, actually gonna miss Noct; how sad is that? Before he can reach for the door, Iggy clears his throat again.

“Ahem,” he says stiffly. “Ah. You may find certain — modifications to your home decor, specifically in the exterior facade. But I assure you that your property manager has approved all such renovations, and that you should experience no—”

“You blew up his door?” Noct hoots.

“You blew up my door??” Prompto demands, as horrified as Noct is thrilled. Ignis takes off his glasses and uses a handkerchief to wipe an invisible speck of dust off the glass. Then he looks up.

“Yes,” he says, clearly not enjoying it. “We — damaged the hinges irreparably.”

“Blew it clear out of its frame, more like,” Gladio snorts. “You slobs left your dishes all over the table, too, right where the door would slam right into ‘em.”

“In my defense, we did not anticipate a flying door,” Prompto says faintly.

“I had to go buy new bowls!” Gladio tells him, clearly outraged. “You think I get reimbursed for that?”

“...Yes?”

“If I kept the receipt, maybe,” Gladio growls, and suddenly it’s all just too silly and Prompto collapses into peals of helpless laughter.

When he catches his breath, Noct is watching him fondly. Prompto blushes and buries his face in his hands. Stupid.

“I gotta get home,” Noct says casually. “But I’m not grounded anymore, so… I’ll text you?”

“Haha!” Prompto kinda shouts at him, drunk off the energy of the moment. In his defense, it has been an extremely weird day at the end of an extremely weird week. “Yeah. Yes. Please do. I’ll, you know. ...Also text you.”

In the front seat, Gladio sounds like he’s choking. Prompto glances forward but Ignis doesn’t look worried, so he lets it go.

“See ya around?” he says, a little wildly. Noct meets his hysteria with a rare, bright little grin of his own, just for a moment, there and then gone, (and astrals help him, Prompto is so gone).

“Cool,” Prompto says breathlessly, groping for the door handle. It takes him a moment to find it and then he’s kinda stumbling backwards through the door, and then he’s out in open air, and Ignis reaches back and pulls the door shut.

Through the cracked windows, he hears Gladio mutter “Bahamut,” low and wry, and then bust out laughing. “What,” the big guy cackles. “So you just picked him up and—"

“Discretion,” Ignis says mildly, and the car peels out.

###

By the time Prompto is staggering up the steps to his apartment, he’s ready to pass out right there in the stairwell. He can’t make sense of his surroundings. It’s the same dingy, gum-spattered staircase it’s always been, but after the week he’s had, it feels less real somehow, like he’s looking at a memory. He just lived out a whole life in that warehouse with Noct, and now he’s just supposed to trudge home and live like it never happened. But what else can he do? It’s all over.

He’s not even reached his floor when his phone buzzes.

this is me texting u, Noct says. And then: srsly, thanks.

dude, please, Prompto assures him. totally my pleasure

He only has a second to feel self-conscious before his phone pings again.

:] i had fun too

...so maybe it’s not all over.

When Prompto finally drags himself to his front door, he throws his head back and laughs like a hyena. In the place of his faded, dusty pine door looms a slab of polished steel. This is not a civilian door. This is a military door. It’s practically a bank vault. A hundred armed Niffs could fire on that door and it wouldn’t give an inch.

Still cackling, he takes a quick selfie with it and sends it to Noct. He’s getting acquainted with his new dishware — (surprisingly tasteful, ringed with little painted daisies) — when his phone buzzes.

can’t say i didnt warn u.

Snorting to himself, Prompto slouches out of his (filthy) clothes and makes his way to the shower.

The last time Noct burst into his life, Prompto was ready to write it off as a one-off. But that was before he spent seven days homesteading with the guy. Without Noct around to knock sense into him, he can feel his self-consciousness steadily resurfacing, whispering all the usual nastiness: you let him down and now you’ll never see him again; you were a means to an end and you couldn’t even do that right. But he can feel something else, too, something he’s less familiar with: trust. Prompto just spent a whole week with Noct. Prompto knows Noct. He can read Noct’s mood from the jut of his jaw and the timbre of his sigh. Prompto just collected a massive pool of data, and all the readings indicate that Noct likes him — that likes what Prompto says and how he says it, and actively wants him around. So maybe it’s not just a weird anomaly, after all. Maybe it’s not too crazy to think that Noct might actually stick around.

When Prompto steps out of the shower, he’s surprised to hear his phone ringing — not the quick buzz of an inbound text, but actually ringing. He gapes at it, reflexively panicked, and then squints at the screen.

It’s Noct.

Prompto’s hand spasms. The phone jolts out of his grip, bounces off the side of the sink and then nearly drops into the toilet before Prompto whips up one knee and knocks it aside, to land (mostly) harmlessly in the trash. He scrabbles for it and takes the call (on speaker, since he should probably get a Lysol wipe before he touches it with his face).

“Hey,” Noct says, low and breathy, and Prompto does a full-on, totally embarrassing shudder.

“Hey,” he says, reedy and over-eager, like always. On the other end, he hears the amused huff of Noct’s breath.

“Just a week, huh?” Noct says quietly. “Felt like longer. Gonna be weird trying to fall asleep alone.”

“Totally,” Prompto squeaks, and hears another low breathy laugh. When his eyes fall shut, he can picture the exact look on Noct’s face: smooth, restrained, controlled, but with just a glimmer of mischief behind it. Prompto bounces in place and suppresses a giddy, inexplicable giggle.

“Anyway,” Noct says softly. “Guess that’s all I had. I’ll, uh. See you Monday?”

Alone in his bathroom, Prompto shoots him a helpless grin.

“I’ll be there.”