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Ignis budgets like a madman. He has to, though, as it turns out four people in their current position need quite a bit to keep themselves alive, and out here Insomnia currency and royal credit gets them nowhere. They’re able to make do without proper shelter when necessary, and Ignis can keep them going with more than a few creative nature-based meals. The Regalia takes a decent chunk out for care, but for what she’s done for them it’s worth it. Cindy goes easy on them with the cost, too.
But curatives, weapons, armaments don’t come all that cheap. And those are the few things that can’t be skimped on. Not if they want to still help folks out here, against scourge-infected wildlife and daemons, and not if they want to go up against the Empire. Astrals blessings or not, they need to be properly equipped in their fights.
Ignis tends to keep the finer points to himself, but is prudent about letting them know when items run low, or what would be needed to take on a certain hunt. Noctis doesn’t ask for much say with the budgeting, since Ignis has kept them going this long and Noctis isn’t exactly the best manager of these things.
By the late night campfire, meals finished, Ignis goes over the plan for the next few days, hunts and supplies and all. They’re low on most curatives, and in need of some protective armaments if they’re to continue on their ever more treacherous journey. After the next set of hunts, though, Ignis muses that they may have enough to cover their upcoming supplies and a night at a hotel.
Prompto pipes up from the kitchen setup, arms covered in suds as he waves a hand in the air. “Say it isn’t so, Ignis! A bed, a shower, a roof over our heads? It can’t be real.”
“Come now, one would daresay you don’t enjoy our forays out here in the wilds.” Ignis replies, dry as ever.
Noctis snorts, and joins his friend in agreement. No doubt they could all use a proper shower and a night spent out of the tent. He spends the rest of the evening fading in and out of the chatter that makes up their nightly routine.
They handle two hunts with little issue the next day. One more to go, and the chance for some proper rest on the horizon. But two hunts take their toll, and the day stretches a bit too long. On their final hunt, Noctis fumbles a killing blow against one of the yellowtooth they face. It knocks him down, and launches itself at Prompto.
He goes down hard, and in the resulting chaos, all focus is on killing the remaining creatures as quickly as possible. Noctis flings his spear with all his strength into the yellowtooth’s chest to force it off of Prompto, who flops down limply into the dirt. Noctis stays steady at his side while Ignis and Gladio finish off the rest. It takes one antidote, two of their precious potions, and a good chunk of their sanity to get him stable, and by the time they finish, the sun is starting to dip below the horizon.
They trudge back to the haven in exhausted silence, resigned to spending another night out under the stars. Prompto’s flagging, pulled along with little resistance by Noctis. His wounds are healed, but potions don’t do much for the exhaustion that comes with that kind of injury, losing that much blood. He’s practically dead weight against Noctis’ side, and all Noctis can feel is guilt and sympathy for his friend. He steadfastly ignores the steady throb in his own leg, the slight stickiness from dried blood on his pants.
They reach the glowing stones just as the sun makes its exit, and Noctis helps haul Prompto up the ramp. He’s leaning hard into Noct, their arms tangled up together. Noctis steers him to the tent and lets him slump down, as they both fall into a heap.
Prompto mumbles into Noctis’ shoulder as he strips off his vest, gloves, and boots. That overwhelming fatigue which makes him so pliant against Noctis is all too familiar, and Noct knows he'll probably sleep for the next twelve hours once he goes down.
Noctis maneuvers him onto his sleeping bag, and gently pushes him down. As he does, Prompto reaches out, a weak grip around Noctis’ wrist.
“Hey, it’s alright.” Noctis tries to soothe him. “You’re fine, just gotta sleep it off.”
Prompto shakes his head, pushing back. “Hang on, just…you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Noctis grabs a blanket to wrap over Prompto, who’s still eyeing him warily even as his eyes start to droop.
“You feel warm,” he mumbles. “You’ve been quiet.” He tries stubbornly to get up again.
“I’m good, Prom, really. You’re the one who got hit today, so just focus on resting up, alright? We’re all fine.”
At that, Prompto drops off, hand still wrapped around Noctis’ wrist. He gently pries the fingers off, curling his own around them for a moment, and leaves Prompto to his rest.
He checks his leg, and the bleeding’s stopped. The wound sits on the side of his knee, slicing down and around his calf, a clean cut from what was probably the creature’s tail. It’s a bit inflamed, and might need a stitch or two, but he can feel how many curatives are left in the armory, and it’s just not enough. He pulls out a bandage and a roll of gauze instead, wrapping it quickly and defiantly ignoring the sting it gives him in return. He gets lost for a moment, eyes on Prompto, until Ignis calls to him.
He comes out of the tent to Ignis heating up stew, a mild aroma that still manages to set Noctis’ stomach on edge. Gladio’s building up the fire and nods at Noctis’ approach. “Blondie out?” he asks, casual tone betrayed by the way his jaw is stiffly set.
“Yeah.” Noctis slouches into the camp chair, all loose limbs and heavy sighs. He scratches at his knee and sets his eyes onto the fire, letting the shifting patterns in the flames wash over the thoughts in his head.
The three stay in silence for a few minutes more, until Ignis prepares bowls and hands them out. Noctis refuses his, stomach still unsettled, and though Ignis doesn’t protest, he brings his chair closer to Noct’s and fixes his gaze upon him.
“Prompto will be fine, you know.”
He knows. It’s his magic that fixed the bones and sealed up the gashes. That doesn’t make it any easier, any time this happens. “Yeah,” he says, tone hollowed out.
“Noct—”
“We gonna have enough for those pendants when we turn everything in?” Noctis cuts him off. He doesn’t want to pick apart his feelings, not tonight.
Ignis sighs. “I believe we will,” he says, and concedes to Noctis’ wish for quiet.
Noct turns in early, brushing off the concern that Ignis gives him as he heads into the tent. He takes up a place next to Prompto, eyes on the sleeping form of his friend, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. It’s too hot for him to curl up into his sleeping bag, so he just stays on top, trying to ignore the prickling sensation under his skin as he wraps himself up in guilt and exhaustion.
The other two join eventually, and Noctis keeps his eyes closed and breaths level, although the gears continue to turn around in his mind. He listens to them fall asleep, and tries to find solace in their steady breathing.
A few hours of trying to fall asleep, and he rolls up with a groan, moving gently around his companions as he shuffles out of the tent. It feels more appropriate to sit under the stars instead, since he can’t sleep anyway. He adds a few logs to the fire and returns to watch the flames flicker.
~~~~~
Ignis tends to be the early riser of the group, a consequence of his lifelong position and Noct’s overwhelming stubbornness involving all things relating to mornings. It surprises him to see his charge curled up in a chair already, his back to the tent.
“Noct?”
There’s no movement, so Ignis heads over to one side of the chair, movements slow so as not to startle him. Rousing Noctis has a variety of outcomes; often, he either has to be pulled from the depths of sleep like pulling apart a pile of taffy, or he comes up hard, swinging at friend and foe alike.
A gentle hand on his shoulder gets him to stir, no fighting or flighting. Instead, blurred, unfocused eyes look up, casting themselves past Ignis.
It takes a few long seconds for Noctis to focus, long enough for Ignis to rest the back of his hand against Noct’s forehead. It’s a bit too warm, too clammy, and then he’s shaken off, Noctis' own hand coming up to clumsily push it away. “Knock it off,” he grouses.
“Are you alright?”
“M’fine,” is the grumpy reply. Noctis uncurls himself from the chair, legs sliding down. He looks out for a moment, perplexed by his surroundings.
“You’re out rather early, you know,” Ignis says.
“Clearly. Couldn’t sleep in the tent, thought I’d get some air out here.” He shoves himself up, rubs the back of his neck, then saunters over to the camp’s kitchen setup, kept out over the night. Ignis could be excused in thinking his slow movements were the result of just grogginess so soon after waking, but Ignis is hardly the unobservant type.
“You’re limping.”
“No m’not.”
“Yes, you are.” Ignis heads towards him, puts on his strongest no-nonsense gaze, and tries to rein in his charge. “Are you injured?”
“No.”
Ignis resists the urge to roll his eyes, goes for the rational line of thinking. “It won’t do any good to just wait on it. Let me—”
“I’m fine, Ignis, lay off!” Noctis yells, flinching back. He slams his hands down onto the table, curls his fingers, and draws his shoulders up.
The sudden outburst stops Ignis in his tracks. Noctis gets grumpy in the mornings, and he can easily slide into stubborn and petulant, but he doesn’t get outwardly angry often, and certainly not over things like this.
“Noctis?”
Noct practically growls in frustration, growing even more tense as he glares down at the table. The air of anger around him turns into something different.
Before Ignis can say anything else, the tent flap opens up, Gladio groaning as he rubs his eyes and comes out. “The hells are you doing,” he grumbles. “Sun’s not high enough for you to be pulling this crap.”
Ignis gives Gladio a look, one that makes him pause, the one that reads ‘something’s not right’. He looks over at Noctis, and can see the tension radiating through him, back hunched and stiff as his shoulders creep towards his ears. “Noct? What’s going on?”
Noctis whirls around to him. “F-fuck off,” he says, but the anger he had in his voice is gone now, replaced with unease.
“Noct, are you alright?”
Noctis shifts his gaze back and forth between them, eyes shining more brightly than they should. “I’m fine, I’m…” he takes a step back, bumping into the table, which seems to startle him. “Leave me alone.”
From here, Ignis can see the sheen of sweat on his brow, the tremble in his hands. His face is pale, color leeching from his lips.
Ignis puts his hands up, and moves a little closer to him, trying to be placating. “We just want to know how you’re feeling. You look a bit ill.”
“M’not, I’m…I don’t, it’s fine.” Noctis doesn’t seem so sure about that sentiment anymore. He skirts around the table, taking unsteady steps backwards.
Gladio joins in, hands held up in the same nonthreatening stance as Ignis. “Hey, take it easy. Why don’t we just sit for a minute, huh?”
Noctis shakes his head, and his breathing picks up. Gladio continues to edge forward, longer strides overtaking Noct’s own wavering steps. “It’s okay, Noct, we just want to figure out what’s wrong.”
“No. No, I’m, just…” Noctis loses focus on them, shaking his head from side to side. He doesn’t seem able to gather his thoughts well enough to make a full sentence. “I…it’s…”
Noctis looks like a frightened animal, and Gladio thinks he knows what’s going to happen next. Slowly, steadily, he gets nearly close enough to grab his sleeve. Dropping his shoulders, trying to keep the tension low, he calls out one more time.
“Noct. It’s okay.”
He reaches out, quickly as he can, but he’s too slow. Noctis recoils, lurching back, then turns and flings out a dagger, warping off the edge of the haven.
“Shit! Noct!”
Gladio spares Ignis a quick glance, knowing they can’t just leave Prompto undefended. Ignis nods, and with permission granted, Gladio sprints off after the fading blue images of his charge.
~~~~~
Warp after warp, Noctis flees into the woods. He doesn’t know why. It all just feels wrong, feels like something’s breathing down his neck, and he has to run from it. He pulls hard on his magic, feeling the steady drain as he darts around the trees.
He comes to a stop around the edge of a small meadow, chest heaving, something akin to nausea surging through his stomach. There’s something bubbling under his skin, sharp prickles of pain, and he paws at his arms, trying to scrape the feeling away. It only makes it worse.
He hears a sharp hiss, some ways behind him, and whirls around looking for the threat. There’s nothing there, nothing but the soft whistle of wind through the trees. He pulls his dagger out of the armory anyway.
Another hiss, this one closer, and he flings his dagger out towards it. It meets only air, and continues on to sink into the trunk of one of the trees.
The sound comes from behind him again, and he turns once more to meet it, second dagger thrown into the bushes. Still nothing, and he wills his daggers back, bracing himself, snarling.
Something’s here, something made him run, and now it’s toying with him.
He dismisses his daggers and pulls out a flask. If he can’t catch it with blades, he’ll force it out with magic. One, two, three unsteady steps back, and he flings it into the center of the meadow.
Electricity arcs out from the glass as it shatters, charring the thin grass and blackening the trees around it. The air crackles as it’s split by the bolts, and Noctis reels back from the intensity of it. He waits, looking and listening for something to emerge out of the storm he’s created, but nothing greets him. Perhaps he caught it in the blast, but the nagging feeling on the back of his neck indicates otherwise.
He still doesn’t feel safe. This isn’t right.
He turns to start warping away again, and to his own surprise he falls, leg giving out underneath him. Landing hard on his side, he yelps, hands gripping around his knee as it starts to burn.
The heat radiates out from it, and he claws at it, yanking his hands away when that only makes the pain spike. For a moment he thinks on the wound he got the night before, the unusual sheen of sweat covering him, the way his eyes itch and burn.
Then fear rushes over him again, the overwhelming need to get away takes over, and he summons his blade to warp away once again.
~~~~~
He doesn’t make it as far this time, too much strain on his magic, and it fizzles out, leaving him to slump down into the dirt. It coats his skin, grains of earth sticking to him and grinding into his pores, and he scrapes his hands over himself, trying to brush it away. It simply sinks further into him, joining the prickling feeling under his skin.
He starts to scratch at it, searching for the source, nails scoring lines onto himself. Something hisses right next to his ear, and he flinches, swinging out wildly. He meets only air, but the noise doesn’t stop.
Shaking hands clap themselves over his ears, gripping tightly into his hair. It still doesn’t stop, worming its way into his brain. It’s stuck in him, and he isn’t going to be able to get it out.
He needs to get back to his friends. They can help, they can fix this, they can find whatever’s making the hissing noises and tear it out of him. He forces himself upright, scanning the terrain around him. It all looks the same, all greens and browns that sway around him. He picks a direction and moves, stumbling through the brush.
The prickling under his skin grows ever more intense, burning into him. He goes through the last of his reserves and crashes to the ground. The hissing’s all around him now, smothering him, fear burrowing into his chest to tighten around his heart.
He crawls into the bushes, curls himself up, and buries his head into his knees.
~~~~~
The woods are easy enough to traverse, but the landscape looks the same no matter which direction he looks towards. It’s dizzying, threatening to lose the wanderer in it. Ignis moves forward anyway, marking trees where he can to keep track of where he’s going.
With Prompto awake and well enough to be aware of the situation, Ignis had left him to keep watch the haven in case Noct came back, and ventured out to search. He moves swiftly, steadily, ears peaked for any indication of Noctis. Gladio’s out on his own, the two keeping each other appraised over the phone.
The minutes continue to tick away, worry creeping up inch by inch. He finds a burnt out section of a meadow, residual smolder from a lightning strike, but no footprints follow outward from it. Ignis has some idea of just how far Noctis can go with full warps, and it doesn’t bode well for their search radius.
He comes to spot between several groves of trees, and it’s apparent that someone has torn through it. The tall grass has been stamped down, bushes disturbed, and more importantly, a clear trail has been left to follow. Ignis hurries down it, scanning the path and the areas around it.
It doesn’t take long to find where it ends, the impression of a tangle of limbs in the dirt, grass torn as something crawled over it. He looks out, following the indented earth to a bramble of bushes. A flash of black can be seen beneath the leaves. He slowly heads towards it, and crouches down.
His prince sits there, curled up, shaking, small cut off whimpers escaping him. He’s covered in scratches, faint lines of red across his skin most likely from torn branches, and marks left behind from what looks to be his own nails. They dig into his calves now as he clings to his legs. His head is ducked down, and a mess of mud and leaves are tangled in his hair.
Ignis hesitates, not wanting a repeat of the haven. He’s afraid Noctis will try to run from him again, and the next time he may not be so fortunate in finding him. Another choked off whine comes from Noctis, though, and Ignis’ composure crumbles.
“Noctis?”
Noctis looks up at him. His eyes are shining bright, bloodshot, and full of terror. This time around, he doesn’t shy away, just looks pleadingly at Ignis.
“Iggy.” It’s small, and pained, and Ignis sighs in sympathy.
“I’m right here.”
He reaches for him, tries to get him to unwind from the tight ball he’s curled himself into. Noctis' hands shake so badly, but he pulls them in, clinging to his knees. He shakes his head, tries to move back, but he can’t huddle any further into the brush, and he only succeeds in shaking a few more leaves loose.
He sniffles, tears making their way down his cheeks.
“I don’t know what’s happening.”
“That’s alright. Please, Noct. Let me help.”
Noctis lets out a sob, still afraid to move. Bit by bit, Ignis coaxes him out. He winds up half-cradling the prince in his lap, gentle as he can be. Noctis flinches at each point of contact, but doesn’t move away.
“Can you show me where you’re injured?” Ignis asks. Noctis stays motionless, so Ignis hazards a guess and goes for his leg, stretching it out. There are awful, unnatural, dark green lines creeping down into his boots, like veins. Slowly, carefully, Ignis rolls up his pant leg and gets to the swath of white, the gauze that Noctis must have used on himself, which is now stained with blood as it soaks through.
Ignis unwinds it, stopping every few seconds to grab Noctis’ hand when he reaches out for it. He pulls the last bit away and removes the bandage underneath, revealing the wound. It’s relatively thin, but heavily inflamed, and green veins pour outward from it. Ignis lifts up the hem of Noct’s shirt and sure enough, the lines have crept up onto his torso.
“Oh, Noct,” Ignis sighs. With the spread of poison as far out as it is, it’s no wonder he’s delirious. Gods only knows what it’s doing to his head, coupled with pain and disorientation and fear. It also means an antidote likely won’t work as well has it could have if applied instantly to the injury. He pulls one out of the armory, only one other remaining, and cracks it directly over the wound.
Noctis whines, clutching Ignis’ shirt. The light of the antidote seeps into his skin, and it manages to pull back some of the poison, dark veins thinning out to something lighter. It doesn’t completely remove them, and Noctis is still trembling, breaths light and short. Ignis considers using the second antidote, but isn’t sure if it will make a difference now.
He decides to wait, and with that decision comes the inability to heal the wound with a potion. He sends a quick text to Gladio and then nudges at Noctis, speaking softly, head nearly resting on top of Noct’s own.
“We need to get back to the haven, would that be alright?”
Noctis curls closer to him, head burrowing into his chest. “I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds so lost that Ignis’ heart clenches.
“I’m going to take care of you, but we’ll be safer at the haven, and it’s more comfortable there. Prompto’s there, too, and he’s anxious to see you.”
He waits, and lets Noctis' stuttered breaths be the only sounds between them. Finally, muffled and faint, he hears it. “Okay. I…okay.”
Ignis draws Noctis' arm across his shoulders. “Can you stand?” Noctis nods, and together they start to move up. He's shaking still, practically vibrating out of Ignis’ grip.
They make it a few minutes before Noctis’ knees buckle, and Ignis has to ease them down to the ground. Noct’s eyes are closed, head bowed, and he’s sweating, skin too hot for comfort. Ignis knows he’s probably not going to make it back under any of his own power. He maneuvers Noct into a crouch, then slides in front of him, hooking his arms over his own chest. He’s far too easy to move, too pliant, too worn out to do anything but be pulled into place. Ignis grabs his legs, and pushes hard against the ground to get them both up.
Noctis doesn’t resist, just a dead weight on his back, tremors rippling through his frame. He tucks his head into Ignis’ neck, and they slowly make their way back to the haven.
~~~~~
Gladio’s already pulled the sleeping bags together into a makeshift bed within the tent, blankets and first aid kit off to the side, and waits at the edge of the haven. Prompto’s with him, sunk into a chair, still looking too pale but determined to help where he can.
Ignis barely makes it onto the flat stone of the haven before Gladio’s hauling Noctis off of him, easing him into the tent. Noct’s lost some of his lucidity to exhaustion, eyes unfocused and wandering, and Prompto settles himself at his side. He threads his fingers into Noctis' trembling ones, weak grips nonetheless seeking comfort in the contact.
“What happened?” Gladio asks Ignis, who’s digging through the first aid kit.
Ignis shakes his head, brows drawn. “He’s been poisoned, likely from the yellowtooth yesterday. He didn’t treat it properly, and it appears that the efficacy of our curatives is now at a minimum.”
He gently pulls up on Noctis’ pant leg to get to the wrapping of gauze. Noctis shies away from the contact, trying to curl up.
“It’s alright, Noctis. We’re going to help you, remember?”
Noctis moans, features scrunching as he holds back tears. He manages to land his gaze on Ignis, and his glassy eyes flash with some recognition. “Iggy.” It comes out as nearly a whisper, but it's there.
Ignis takes the offered permission, unwinding the gauze and wasting no time in cleaning the wound. Noctis flinches at the contact, struggling to stay still enough for Ignis to work.
“Why the hells didn’t he speak up,” Gladio grits out as he crouches beside them. He pulls out more supplies to hand to Ignis, clenching onto them and turning his knuckles white.
Shame crosses over Ignis’ features, and he swallows heavily. “I’ve been drilling into us for days that we have to be smart with our stock. I imagine that coupled with Prompto’s injury led him to the unfortunate conclusion that he should just take care of it himself.”
“Well he’s an idiot, then,” Gladio says. There’s more frustration than anger in it though, and he looks out at Noctis with sympathy, and shame of his own.
“Guys—” Prompto starts, only to be swiftly cut off.
“Nothing to be done now but try and get him through this,” Ignis interjects.
He works quickly, cleaning and applying antiseptic to the cut, even as it makes Noctis hiss with pain. When it’s as well taken care of as he’s able to do with their limited supplies and away from any real medical help, Ignis pulls out their last antidote. He eyes Gladio, the two of them sending out the same prayer that it will do enough for their charge, and then breaks it over the wound.
The green veins recede further, inflammation around the wound going down. Not completely clear, the injury still looks angry, and they have to accept that with no other items at their disposal, Noctis will have to ride out whatever’s left of his poisoning.
He sinks a bit further into the pile of sleeping bags, groaning, and stares at Ignis. He seems a bit more focused now, some of the fear finally easing out of his features. Ignis rests his hand upon his ankle, squeezing lightly.
“M’sorry,” Noctis mumbles. "Didn't mean to."
“It’s alright,” Ignis replies. “You’re safe now.”
Noctis mumbles again, too slurred to make anything out, and closes his eyes, exhaustion finally pulling him down into sleep. Prompto shifts in closer to him, moves his hand onto his wrist to feel the steady pulse there.
“He gonna be okay, Iggy?” he asks cautiously.
Ignis takes a moment before he nods. “I believe so, yes. He’ll need to be monitored, but the poison should work its way out of his system with no additional surprises.”
“What was he doing? Why’d he run?”
Ignis shrugs. “Delirium, most likely. He was quite confused and scared when I found him.”
Prompto bites his lip, brows drawn. Ignis takes note of the slight tremors in his hands, face pale with dark circles under his eyes. He must be exhausted himself, a night of recovery interrupted with worry and stress.
“You should rest, you know,” Ignis says. “You can stay with him here, it’s evident that we’ll be taking at least a day for recuperation.”
Prompto looks up at Ignis, expression guarded. “It’s okay, I can keep an eye out—”
“It’s of no benefit to anyone to have two members of our group down for the count. Please, rest. Noctis will heal all the more quickly if he can see you’re alright.” Ignis doesn’t always play fair, but he knows the not-so subtle push will work to get Prompto to rest.
It does, Prompto’s shoulders slumping as he acquiesces. “Okay. Thanks, Iggy.”
He curls down next to Noctis, arms intertwined, and drops off within a minute.
~~~~~
Noctis fades in and out over the course of the day. He’s somewhat lucid, calm enough to let himself be checked over. Prompto stays close by his side, and tries to get him to drink water when he’s awake, with varying degrees of success. His fever rises and falls so they alternate between letting him curl under the blankets and forcing him out of them, trying to tune out his whines as he shivers and tries to burrow back under again.
By the time evening falls, they’re all worn out. At Ignis’ behest, Prompto finally leaves the tent to join them outside for a meal, though he drags his chair over to the tent flap and keeps it open, eyes on Noctis. He picks at his food, a simple broth to try and settle their uneasy stomachs.
Gladio stares him down, gaze boring a hole in his skull.
“If you keep that frown on it’s going to get stuck that way, you know.”
Prompto scoffs, tries for a smile and fails. “Sorry. Just caught up in my head, I guess.”
“Spit it out, then,” Gladio says.
Prompto hesitates, picking at the hem of his shirt. It’s a longtime anxious habit, when he wants to talk but isn’t sure what to say. “I…something was off with him, last night. I should’ve done something, or said something.”
“Prompto,” Ignis says, setting down his bowl to turn his attention fully to him. “You are not to blame for this incident.”
“I just…look at him, Iggy. We’re supposed to look out for him, not just sit back and let him burn from the inside out.” His words are so full of guilt and shame that it hangs heavy over them all.
Gladio huffs, and drags his hand over his eyes. “We all saw him last night, and we let it go. It’s not just on you.”
“So what, we all failed?” Prompto ducks his head, trying to ignore the prickling feeling at the corners of his eyes.
“Perhaps,” Ignis replies. “But when Noctis wants to keep something to himself, he’s often successful. I doubt we could have gotten anything out of him. And as we can’t go back and remedy the situation, it does no one any good to dwell on it.”
Gladio sighs heavily, flicking his eyes over to the tent. "Frustrating as it is, at the end of the day Noct makes his own choices, and sometimes there's just no stopping him. It's on us to just keep him from falling over that edge when he goes there.”
It’s the unfortunate duality of being both his Crownsguard and his friends. It complicates things, makes the roads run both ways instead of one. And Noctis, in the midst of all his dedication for them, puts himself in the line of fire more often then they would like.
“We will certainly discuss this with him when he awakens properly.” Ignis muses. “In the meantime, there’s nothing to be done but continue our watch, and take what we can from this.”
Prompto sighs, resigned. “He’s an idiot,” he says.
“Royalty often is.”
~~~~~
Noct’s fever finally breaks early the next morning. He awakens to a muddled world, body aching, but head finally clear enough to recognize his surroundings. There’s an arm tangled up with his own, and as he shifts the sleep-mussed hair of one partially awake Prompto rises up to greet him.
“Noct?” he mumbles.
Noctis blinks hard, trying to shake away the exhaustion from his eyes. “Hey,” he manages to get out. “You okay?”
“I’m good, man. You’re the one who looks like a zonked out zombie.”
He tries for a chuckle, settles for a hum instead. “Still look better than you,” he shoots back.
“Back with us, Highness?” Ignis asks from his spot on the far side of the tent. He has an Ebony in hand, and is staring down at Noctis with guarded concern.
“Um, yeah.” He starts to push himself upright, and Prompto helps him the rest of the way, offering a shoulder to lean on as Noctis sits up fully.
He feels a bit too warm in his skin, leg sending out little bursts of pain. He glances down to see the fresh wrap of gauze around his injury. Memories from his time in the woods make him frown, recalling the confusion, the paranoia, that overwhelming fear as he ran from something he couldn’t even identify. It all went south so quickly.
“Do you remember what happened?” Ignis asks.
Noctis nods. “That was, uh…less than pleasant.”
“Indeed.” He checks Noct’s forehead and his leg, satisfied that he’s mostly healed. They move to help Noctis out of the tent, settling him into a chair as the sun rises over the horizon.
Ignis hands out water and a slice of toast, giving Noctis enough time to get his bearings. Prompto’s in the next chair over, eyes locked on him, while Gladio stands a bit apart, his posture stiff.
Noctis can tell the exact moment when the mood changes. It starts with Ignis.
“Well then, now that you're up and moving, care to enlighten us on why you thought that treating a poisoned wound on our own without the aid of an antidote was the proper course of action?”
Straight to the point. Ignis tends to swing between caretaker and disciplinarian, offering equal amounts of concern, care, and chastisement. This time, Noctis knows he deserves it. He doesn’t want to face the issue head on, but supposes it’ll happen anyway.
“I didn’t know it was poison. I thought it would be fine.”
Gladio scoffs at the remark. “Not good enough, Noct,” he says, scowling as he settles down into a chair of his own.
“Regardless of what you thought, you need to tell us,” Ignis says, tone stern. “It does no good to anyone to hide injuries.”
“I know, I’m sorry, it’s just…I thought I could handle it. And we needed to save what we have, we—”
“The entire point of curatives is to use them when they are needed.”
“And if someone else had needed them? You saw, Igs, if we didn’t—” Noctis cuts himself off, all too aware of his friend at his side. Prompto stiffens up in his seat, and Noct can feel the tension radiating from him. He doesn’t want his words to add to any guilt Prompto might already be feeling.
Ignis sighs, letting some of the strain in his voice go. “I understand your motives, Noct, but they don’t excuse you.”
“It’s not a reason to hide shit,” Gladio says. “We didn’t know what had happened to you, and if we weren’t able to find you—Noct, this could’ve been so much worse.”
Noctis knows the meaning behind their words, the real reason why they wanted Noct to tell them. They’re his Crownsguard, it’s a part of their duty to protect him, even at the cost of their own well-being. Noct hates it. He doesn’t want them to put him first, never has.
Still, looking out at them all, he can tell they’re exhausted, some measure of remorse clear on their faces. He may not want their sacrifices, but he also doesn’t want their guilt. “I’m sorry.”
Prompto matches his gaze, fiddles with his wristband and sighs. “Just tell us next time, okay?”
He sounds so damn sincere in his affection that Noctis can’t help but yield. “Okay.”
“We will reach a point were we can continue on our journey without worrying about our resources,” Ignis says. “But regardless of our situation, we need to be honest with each other.”
“I get it. I will.”
They relax into their seats, satisfied for the moment. Noctis holds tight to their companionship, and together they watch the sun rise, golden light enveloping the plains and forests around them.