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There’s a giant, corporate dollar store monopolizing the whole front of the mall, and a smaller, home-run, moth-ball smelling one at the back. They linger in the latter, because there are less customers taking up the crammed aisles, which means less chance of Noctis being recognized, and they also have a better selection of cheap dinosaur figurines. They need to be cheap, because Prompto insists on paying an equal share of their combined collection, which they’re using to glue onto Prompto’s dad’s old car in the hopes of winning their university’s upcoming cool car contest. If he’s honest with himself, Noctis still hasn’t forgiven his dad for not lending him the Regalia. Personally, he thinks the Regalia would look way better with small plastic dinosaurs glued all over it. Ignis disagrees, but Ignis genuinely thinks broccoli’s good, so his opinion doesn’t matter. Gladiolus wouldn’t lend them his car either, so Noctis isn’t talking to him. Prompto’s parents are on another trip to Altissia, and Noctis and Prompto plan to have it all back to normal by the time they return, so Prompto’s dad will never realize how much he helped them out. They’ve even talked about splitting the prize money with him when they inevitably win. Noctis doesn’t really care about the money. He cares about having a joint project with Prompto that gives them an extra excuse to spend all their time together.
They came to the mall for other things too—they checked out new games, had a very Iggy-unfriendly breakfast, spent a few hours in the arcade, and now they’re traipsing down the ‘toys and party’ aisle, no longer hand in hand.
Noctis keeps trying to hold hands, but then Prompto’s will slip out, and Noctis doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it. He tells himself he’s not that needy. He’s low energy, pretty quiet when he’s alone, so he shouldn’t need Prompto to be super bubbly and all over him. Except Prompto usually is anyway, and it sucks when he’s not.
The dinosaur selection’s sadder than Noctis remember, and he winds up trailing over to the knock-off fashion dolls instead, hoping Prompto will come with him and make fun of the terrible paint job or how poorly designed their clothes are. Prompto automatically shuffles over with him but says nothing. Noctis pokes at a doll wearing a bright blue loofah and jokes, “Y’know, I swear Lady Dona wore one of these to the last royal ball.”
Prompto grunts. The dolls become instantly uninteresting. Prompto hasn’t picked out any of the dinosaurs either, so Noctis figures, “Maybe we should go eat again.” Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s hangry. Or whatever the hungry-depressed fusion is. Prompto doesn’t usually get like that, but Gladiolus once flipped over Noctis’ sofa in a fit of purely-hunger-fueled madness, so it’s possible. When Prompto doesn’t say anything, Noctis prods, “How about smoothies? Bahamut’s Boba is doing caramel-paopu smoothies now.”
Prompto should already know that; he’s the one that keeps singing the stupid jingle under his breath and insists any caramel-fruit combination is delicious, even though Noctis has been skeptical. He even adds, “My treat,” because that usually has Prompto either scrambling to protest or thank him.
Prompto just nods. “Sure.”
It’s not enthusiastic. He’s clearly not thirsty. “Or we could go hit the toy store on the second floor. You know, the one with the plush Shivas in the window that look weird because they have no boobs, and, like... then how is that even Shiva?”
Prompto shrugs.
“Or we could go to the limp wiener store and buy some limp wieners.”
“Sure, if you want.”
“Dude!”
Prompto only startles when Noctis raises his voice. Then he hurriedly lowers it, because the owner’s been shuffling back and forth at the end of the aisle, sweeping up spilled beads, and they shouldn’t draw her attention. Noctis steps in, squaring off with Prompto and turning his back to the open aisle, so he can hiss, “Seriously, what’s up with you?”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been all sad and spacey since we left the arcade. Are you that pissed you lost Melody Memory Dance? Because you lost that fair and square.”
“No, no, it’s stupid,” Prompto insists, and he must be at least telling the truth about their dance-off, because he doesn’t look pissed. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away from Noctis, and he mutters, “It doesn’t matter. Where do you wanna go? Smoothies? You haven’t tried the caramel-paopu ones yet, right?”
Noctis frowns harder.
“What? Do they suck? Okay, well let’s get salad—”
“We’re not going anywhere until you tell me why you didn’t laugh at my limp wiener joke.”
“I dunno, was it lame?”
Noctis glares, which is usually enough to break Prompto, and sure enough, he crumbles. His shoulders hunch, and he shifts his weight onto his other foot, shuffling awkwardly. But he sighs and admits, “Okay. I told you this was stupid. But there were some guys on the machine next to us that were complaining about rubberband AI. And one was like, ‘if I was king, the first thing I’d outlaw is that.’ And I thought, yeah, samesies, rubberbanding sucks. And then I had this one crazy moment where I was like, ‘oh wait, I will be king, I can totally do that.’” His face flushes pinker the longer he talks, voice shakier, and he hurriedly corrects, “It passed right away, of course! I know that’s not how it works! But my brain was just like—yeah, king, sure—and then I... remembered we probably can’t get married... like... ever... no matter how much we like each other, so... n-not that I want you for that! I mean, I totally don’t need a title! It’s not about that! It’s... y’know... that we can never...”
Noctis is already nodding, because he does know. Aside from his advisor and his shield, Prompto’s the only person Noctis has ever met where he’s absolutely positive there’s no ulterior motive. A swell of emotions hits him over it, taking him on the same rollercoaster Prompto must’ve been on. They don’t talk about big stuff, their future and politics, all that often. It’s too messy, hard, and reminds Noctis how little of his life is his own. He’s so relieved that Prompto doesn’t care about all that. He’s also depressed that the council won’t care—all the powers that be, his own father included, will probably never let him officially be with Prompto, no matter how awesome Prompto is. They can have an amazing relationship otherwise, but they can’t get too frisky in public, can’t be honest to the press, can’t get matching rings or full legal rights to each other’s finances and health and joined property. At least, he thinks that’s how it’ll go. But he quietly tells Prompto, “I am gonna fight for us when I’m older, y’know. They won’t take me seriously now. But when we’ve been together longer, and I’m out of university...”
“It’s fine!” Prompto squeaks, blushing right to his ears. “Seriously, I wasn’t saying that! We don’t need a piece of paper or whatever to say we’re together...”
“No, but I want to share that stuff with you,” and then, somehow, it occurs to him, “and I totally wouldn’t mind sharing the title. And... like, all my responsibilities. Hey—if you were also a king, we could totally split council meetings, right? I mean, it’s not like they’d need two kings there, so we could switch on and off, or I could do the weekend ones and you take all the weekdays—”
Prompto actually laughs, and it’s like a colossal weight lifts off Noctis’ shoulders. He cuts himself off, grinning, because his chipper chocobo’s back, all bright sunshine again. He looks at Noctis with such fondness in his gorgeous blue eyes that Noctis practically melts into a puddle. He playfully swats Noctis’ arm and quips, “Never mind then, I don’t think I actually wanna be a king anymore.”
“Nah, man, you should get you that title. We’ll be the twin kings of Insomnia.”
“Pfft, that’s not how that works!” He pauses for a second, then muses, “Wait, have there ever been two kings at once? Is that a thing? Isn’t there just one, and then, like, other family members just become nobles or princes or something?”
Noctis leans in, and for once in his life, it’s not to makeout with his beautiful bestie. He grabs one of the hair accessories off the peg behind Prompto. Then he’s slipping the cheap plastic tiara through Prompto’s golden hair, Prompto’s pretty eyes rolling up to watch. The cardboard tag still wrapped around one side, Noctis finger-combs a few yellow strands over the band. It’s painted with a metallic sheen, and the ‘jewels’ glued onto it look precariously ready to fall off. But Prompto looks ridiculously cute in it, because Prompto’s perfect.
Settling back, Noctis decides, “There we go, your official title will be ‘princess.’ Which should still be high enough to ban rubberband AI.”
Prompto wrinkles his nose and asks, “Can I at least be a prince?”
Noctis makes a show of checking the tiara’s tag. “Mmm... nope, it says ‘princess.’ Sorry, babe.”
Prompto pouts, but in that sweet way of his where it’s obvious he’s not mad, just adorable. His cheeks even dimple with how hard he’s fighting a smile—it’s a losing battle. Noctis is smitten.
Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s leaning forward, pecking Prompto’s lips right there in the store. Prompto minutely pulls away, biting his bottom lip, and that reluctance is the only thing that holds Noctis back from pouncing on him. Noctis does check over his shoulder—too little, too late—but they’re still blessedly alone in the aisle; no witnesses to their sins.
Prompto mumbles anyway, “Did I just commit public treason?”
“Good point,” Noctis realizes, hand slipping into Prompto’s, and this time, Prompto grips him tight and holds on. “We should go commit private treason.” Prompto snorts and moves to put the tiara back.
Noctis stops him—“No, keep it; I wanna act out the wedding night with my new princess.”
Prompto rolls his eyes, grinning, no longer reaching to return the tiara. “What, in a public washroom?”
“Hey, you don’t know that! Maybe I was gonna take you somewhere super classy.”
Prompto squints, slowly puts the tiara back on, and insists, “You better take me somewhere real classy, mister. I’m a princess with standards and a strong dislike for NPCs coming out from behind in racing games.”
If they’d had the conversation right, maybe they could’ve figured out how to actually use the weight of the crown to pressure Lucian developers into entirely letting go of that outdated practice. But Ignis isn’t around to supervise them, so they’ve had the conversation horribly wrong. Noctis just wants to dress Prompto up in a big ballgown and climb under his skirt.
Fingers interlocked, he drags Prompto to the register to pay and then ravishes his beloved boyfriend in a grungy public bathroom.