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The sun has long set – days are still direly short and gloomy for the most part. But when Prompto reaches that old apartment complex he’s settled in, the light in his window is on, cutting through the darkness like a golden beacon. It saps some of the tension from his body even as he climbs the stairs two floors up.
Sure enough, Noct rises from the couch as soon as he opens the door. From the floor, Umbra greets him with a sharp bark, probably offended that he’s interrupting the scritches time. Prompto flashes a sheepish smile, his eyes on Noct as they meet halfway in the narrow entryway.
He doesn’t miss the fresh scrapes on Noct’s hands, or how his leg drags on the carpet. He’s also been hard at work – too hard, knowing him. As if he hadn’t already done enough.
Prompto presses his hello to Noct’s lips, sinking against him like he’s the last thing keeping the world upright.
And Noct doesn’t miss that, either. The familiar wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens when he pulls back to look him over with serious, stormy eyes.
“Everything okay?” he asks. “Our team finished hours ago. What took you so long?”
Prompto chews on his lip. He hates making Noct worry. And he knows his explanation will only worry him even more. But it’s not like dodging the question would make it any better, either.
“They found some imperial machinery from the invasion in the rubble near the hospital,” he says at last. “Magitek armor filled with a shitload of ammunition. Called me to help dig it up and secure it.”
There was a time – not long ago – when he wouldn’t think twice before rushing straight in. There was a time when he’d eagerly take that risk. There were times, far more often than he’d admit, when he lay wide awake in the endless darkness and wished for a call like this.
Those times are gone now, further from his mind with every new day that breaks through the slowly dissipating clouds of miasma.
He used to curse the luck that coasted him through all those close calls. Now, he hopes it never runs out. He really is the luckiest man alive.
Noct’s hand tightens on his shoulder. Warm lips sear a kiss on Prompto’s temple. He hasn’t realized how cold he’s been until he melts under Noct’s gentle touch.
“Glad to hear it was in good hands,” Noctis says, and he doesn’t sound glad at all.
Neither of them lets go as they step back into the living room, over the everyday clutter and around Umbra’s impatient paws. His one-person apartment has grown even more cramped since Noctis’s return, but Prompto would never think to complain. It’s just one more excuse to keep close.
“Have you eaten already?” he asks, hoping to dispel the heavy air that crept in after him.
“Not yet.” Noct shakes his head. “I’ll make something quick, though. We still have some canned tomatoes about to expire. Does pasta sound good?”
“Pasta sounds great,” Prompto says with a grateful smile. He gives Umbra a pat on the head and follows Noct into the kitchen.
It’s barely big enough for two people. Noctis reaches around him as he washes his hands in the sink, stealing a quick hug before grabbing the cutting board.
“Come on, take a break,” he says. “You’ve been working long enough already. Besides, it’s my turn today.”
Prompto nudges him aside with his hip and picks a small onion from his little windowsill garden.
“Screw the turns. I want to cook with you.”
There’s something so right about working side by side with Noctis, chopping the herbs, peeling the garlic and stirring the pasta bubbling in the pot. The small space doesn’t hamper them at all. They read each other’s moves easily and duck out of the way in a perfect rhythm, with a gentle knock of elbows or brush of their shoulders. It’s like a dance they never had to learn the steps for, set to the quiet hum of the stove for the only music.
They don’t need anything more.
In just a few minutes, the sauce is thick enough and the pasta ready to be drained. It would almost be too soon, if Prompto wasn’t so hungry. He sets their plates on the kitchen table, pulls out the chair for Noctis with his foot and sinks onto the other one. The steam warms his face – and something else too, so deep inside him that he forgot it was there.
Prompto blinks away the welling tears, and tells himself it’s because of the onion.
They eat in easy, tired silence, their knees touching under the too small table. Umbra’s paws click on the floor as he circles around them, lazily waiting for a bite to snatch. The dim glow of the light bulb paints the room in sepia, and as Prompto glances at Noct over his plate, he thinks this is what he would look like in a photo on a history book page: all gold and bronze and stark shadows cut out on his face.
But Noct’s place is not in history books anymore. It’s right here, on a rickety kitchen chair, in an old T-shirt, with a speck of tomato sauce in the corner of his mouth. It’s on the ruins of the city he was never meant to rule, helping to clear the path forward one stone at a time. It’s in the rising sun, in a sleep-warmed bed, in loving arms. It’s with Prompto.
It’s home.