Work Text:
Noctis eases his way down the steps of the Citadel’s training pool. Warm water laps at his feet, calves, knees, thighs, waist until he dives below into a single breaststroke and lets himself glide underwater.
It’s magic, really, the way the weight comes off his swollen knee as the saltwater holds him; a revelation of weightlessness after gravity’s steady pull. He comes up for air and flips to float on his back, breathing steadily until he’s loose-limbed, relieved of the steady burn of maltreated muscle.
He bobs beneath a lane divider to start his laps. The freestyle stroke is all strong pulls, angular arms, straight legs, and measured breaths.
This heated saltwater pool is one of the Citadel’s greatest luxuries, way more useful than all the pointless opulence. When he hurts like this, the warm saltwater is like aloe on a sunburn.
He should do this more often, especially on days like today.
Even though he’d woken up feeling like he'd recently been trampled by a Garula, he’d dragged his ass out of bed and to the Citadel for morning training with Gladio. Skipping out in high school was one thing; people expected a certain amount of delinquent behavior from teenagers. Skipping out now was another. And it didn’t matter what the Council thought of him (or it did, but it was a lost cause) . . . but the Crownsguard, the Glaives, the ones caught up in the war that had gone from a simmer to a boil?
Yeah, he cared what they thought.
So he couldn’t slack off. Not about this. As loyal as Gladio was, he couldn’t blame the guy for muttering under his breath when Noct turned up late or not at all . . . and the Crownsguard rumor mill turned 24/7, even about royalty.
(Especially about royalty.)
But when he’d limped into the training hall this morning, Gladio had made him sit, tested his knee’s range of motion, and sent him down to the pool. A benevolent overlord, today.
At the end of the lane, he flips beneath the water, pushes against the wall, and keeps going.
He’s been swimming steadily for a while, in a trance spent in the muffled sound of the underwater world, when he sees feet dangling below the surface of his lane.
Instead of flipping underwater to push against the wall, he surfaces to find Gladio perched on the side, wearing his own trunks and leaning back, kicking his feet like it’s a beach day rather than training time.
“Hey.” Noct pulls himself up to fold his arms on the side of the pool.
“Enjoying yourself?” Gladio asked with a smirk.
“Mmm. It’s nice. You want me out?”
“Nah,” Gladio said. “Thought I’d join you, actually.”
The pool’s getting busier now; wet steps slap on the tiles as a group of Glaives—Crowe for one, and a couple other mages he doesn’t recognize—come in, laughing together. Noct forces himself not to tense or turn red at the thought of eyes on his back. The pool might obscure the worst of it, the broad slashes of white in knotted pink flesh that covers the small of his back.
It’s a dichotomy he’s tired of walking. Strong shoulders, scarred back. Hobbling on land, fast in the water. Wayward son, dutiful prince. It’s the difference between floating beneath the surface in a slower, quieter world, one where he can hear his own heartbeat and nothing else, and coming up into the air.
Gladio cannonballs into the pool.
The absolute wall of water that goes up is frankly impressive. It completely swamps Noct. “Hey, fuck you, too!” Noct laughs, splashing back when Gladio surfaces with a shit-eating grin.
“Race ya,” Gladio calls, then takes a head start, and Noct pushes off to follow.
He’s pretty sure his Shield’s just trying to make him feel better (Gladio hasn’t won a swim race in years), but he doesn’t mind. Soon enough, he’ll have to return to dry land, to aching muscles and the weight of the world slowly pulling him back under again.
But just for this morning, in the water, he’ll let himself be weightless.