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Noct thought he was used to zero privacy.
The tabloids. The gawking stares on the street. The High Council of Lucis commenting on any comings or goings they viewed as ‘unbecoming of his station.’ Crownsguard Marshal Cor Leonis pulling him aside, clearing his throat, and letting him know that the Citadel’s digital security team monitors his internet search history without ever once making eye contact in a five-second conversation that threatened to kill the both of them. Ignis.
It drove him up the wall, sent him retreating to his apartment, or Prompto’s house, or the old arcade with Prompto, where the darkness and noise covered his identity and he could blow off steam and take out 16-bit pixel invaders and forget about things like Cor Leonis getting reports on his internet search history.
But that was before the world as he knew it collapsed in fire and smoke.
And that was before he spent every hour, waking or sleeping, within arm's reach of the same. Three. Dudes.
Piled into the car, squished into the tent, bathing in the river, crammed into caravans that creak dangerously whenever Gladio stands up, sharing tiny motel rooms with two double beds and a single sink.
They all reek, every single day, from running around the Lucian countryside and riding chocobos and being sprayed with blood and gore from rampaging beasts and daemons. They’re lucky that the same enchantments that give their Crownsguard fatigues defensive magic also seem to repel the worst of the dirt and grime.
Turns out no one thought to enchant their socks.
It’s not all bad. Some days are almost fun, though it feels wrong to admit it. He doesn’t have privacy, but he has anonymity, which is maybe what he’s actually been craving all these years. It seems like Ignis and Gladio have gotten comfortable taking a leaf out of Prompto’s book and ignoring royal protocol while they’re out in the wilds. Plus, they’re a good team, getting better every day at coordinating their fighting styles — and it’s really fucking satisfying to land a new technique or combine their attacks in just the right way. Sometimes they stay up late around the campfire playing dumb games, or talking about the craziest stunts from that day’s battles, or just shooting the shit.
And sometimes, his friends drive him absolutely insane.
Everybody’s bad habits pile up to annoy the hell out of each other. Gladio can’t go four seconds without cracking some joint in his neck or knuckles or his whole entire freaking back. Meanwhile, Gladio is clearly using all of his strength to not straight-up throttle Prompto every time he starts singing or humming or whistling without even thinking about it. Ignis is being driven to the edge of his sanity by all of them, and in turn, making it all of their problem with his dramatic sighing and tsking and weary pinches to the bridge of his nose.
(What does Noct do that drives the guys crazy? Hell if he knows. Self-reflection’s not his thing.)
So it’s not anything new when Ignis is taking inventory of their supplies, and sighing heavily that they need more curatives, and snapping at Gladio to please help set up the tent since both Noctis and Prompto are still useless at it. It's inevitable, and if anyone deserves to bitch, it’s Ignis.
But he just can’t handle it anymore, especially when Prompto starts whining that of course he can set up the tent, and Gladio brings up some stupid mistake Prompto made last time, and it’s all just —
Too much.
“Fishing,” Noct says abruptly, standing from the camping chairs he’s supposed to be setting up and hightailing it away from the haven, fishing rod magicked into his hand to make the point. The bickering doesn’t even slow down, so apparently they’re all too busy being annoyed at each other to make time for being annoyed at his slacking off.
Works for him.
Their arguing voices follow him as he picks his way through the trees and towards the lake, the pier, and the not-actual-quiet that is the water gently lapping.
It takes a good half-hour of fruitless casting before his shoulders start to loosen. By then, the sun is starting to go rosy, but he’s just not ready to go back yet.
He can hear Prompto coming down the grassy slope to the lake, humming as he goes, and then his boots on the pier behind him. Noct doesn’t look up, just scoots over a bit so there’s enough room for Prompto to sit next to him. Which he does. The lake's low enough with the dry spell that their boots dangle well above the water.
“Kinda took off there, buddy,” Prompto says after the ten seconds of silence he’s able to manage.
“Sorry.” Noct shudders, takes a deep breath. It’s fine. It’s better now. “Just — had to get away from everybody.”
“Oh.” Prompto starts to stand. “Ah, I get it. Sorry, dude, I’ll get going.”
Noct jerks upright, brows coming together. Suddenly, being by himself feels like the worst idea in the world.
He half-reaches out a hand, stops just shy of grabbing Prompto by the forearm. “Stay.”
“Noct, everybody needs some alone time.” Prompto says it sing-song, like an old adage, not like something he personally believes. He’s hovering halfway to his feet.
“You don’t count.”
Prompto makes a little surprised noise, and Noct can feel his face flood red. Prompto’s gonna twist that and take it the worst way, he knows, so he tries to fix it without actually looking Prompto in the eye.
“I mean — in a good way.” He swallows. He’s not gonna be able to explain it without tipping a hand he shouldn't reveal, so he just. Doesn’t explain. “Stay?”
Prompto laughs, and Noct expects a little teasing. But instead, he relaxes back down again.
“Get any good shots today?” Noct asks, just to reassure him.
“Hm? Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you! While you were napping in the car, I got this incredible shot of the sunlight coming through the tall pines over by the ravine! Ignis stopped the car and everything so I could get a great shot, I think ‘cause even he could tell it was like, the most beautiful thing anyone had ever seen, I’ll show you when we get back—"
He keeps going on, about the lighting and the trees and the vista, and Noct drinks in the unabashed enthusiasm.
Prompto falls in love easy: with places, with things, with people. Especially with people. He could probably fall in love with just about anyone if he tried hard enough, or maybe not even that hard at all. He’s over-the-top about the girls, and more likely to flush quietly and stutter with the guys. (Noct pretends not to notice. He’s not going to force his friend into a conversation he doesn’t want to have.)
But for all his attention is constantly being snatched up, Prompto never follows through. He flirts a bit, then retreats with a sheepish laugh, a flush to his cheeks that's... appealing.
Noct doesn't get it. He’s never quick to notice other people, not like that.
It took him years to realize he was noticing Prompto like that.
Figures.
When Prompto’s done recounting the day’s most epic photos, the air of anxiety he tends to carry seems to have lifted a bit; he’s more relaxed. And Noct finally feels like he’s caught his breath again, too. Which is good, because the sun’s going down in earnest.
“Why don’t you show me all these pictures back at the campsite?” Noct asks, stands and vanishes the fishing pole back into the armiger. He holds a hand out to Prompto, who takes it and lets Noct hoist him up.
Prompto holds onto his hand for just a moment longer, then laughs — swings an arm behind his head and scratches at the back of his neck. He's blushing, just a bit. “Y-yeah? Well, okay, if you’re game!”
“Duh,” Noct says, turning away from the brightness of Prompto’s smile before he burns himself on it. “C’mon, they’re waiting for us.”
There's a radio playing in Insomnia’s underground Glaive HQ.
It’s tucked away in a little corner, around a bend where supplies are stacked waist-high, a little bit out of sight from the rest of the room. Noct leans with his back against the wall, there, taking a minute to himself. He needs to collect himself after his speech, after making the rounds to talk with Cor and the Glaives and Iris on the phone. It’s a lot of people after ten years in a Crystal.
The song’s an old pop number, made for dancing, bright beats muddied by the terrible audio quality. This must pass for background music here at the end of the world.
What kinds of music do they make these days? Do they have the time, the energy? Noctis wonders what it's been like — how they've lived, what they've done to survive this far.
There's no time to ask. Not really. He's a comet blazing out, and the fire is growing hotter.
"Hey." Prompto rounds the bend, crisp in Kingsglaive attire, broader in the shoulders and with a crinkle to his eyes that Noct can only hope means he's had some occasions to laugh.
“Hey yourself.” Noct scoots over so there’s room for Prompto to lean against the wall next to him.
Prompto’s grin widens. He takes the space and then some, pressing their shoulders together. He’s broader, with more muscle than he used to have but still — still Prompto. They stay that way for a while, long enough that the song changes to something slower.
“I always thought this would be a good song to dance to,” Noct admits, for some reason. “With someone you liked.”
“Y’know,” Prompto says, and then he takes a deep breath, like he’s about to cannonball into deep water. "There’s still time.” The words hold an invitation.
Noct's eyes widen.
In another time, Noct would have laughed it off. But there won’t be a next time, and Prompto is looking at him with only the barest blush, offering this piece of his heart with a steadiness that melts Noct’s reservations.
And there’s no time to do this properly, to feel it properly — but Noct laces his fingers through Prompto’s, pulls him closer. Prompto spins to face him, presses their foreheads together, and Noct's heart swells painfully with affection.
They sway, just a little bit. It’s not really dancing, but it’s . . . It’s everything.
“You like me, huh?” Prompto says, sweet and satisfied.
“Sure do. And you like me?” Noct says, corner of his mouth quirking up. “Ah, but that’s not really a surprise. You like everyone.” It's okay if he isn't the only one for Prompto, like Prompto is for him.
Prompto buries his face in Noct’s shoulder, turns his head. He can feel Prompto’s smile against his neck, the rumble of his voice in his chest, the puff of whisper in his ear. “Always liked you best.”
Noct’s heart does something he didn’t know it was capable of doing. “Prompto, I—”
And then, because he is still Noctis Lucis Caelum with the same old luck as ever, Cor comes jogging around the corner.
“Your Majesty, do you . . . Oh.”
Prompto jerks back a bit, but doesn’t break away from Noct’s hold, and Noct doesn’t let go. Cor stands there with his eyebrows high.
Noct swears he can see the gears turning behind the man’s eyes. Maybe remembering some old Moogle searches once delivered to him in a report on the Crown Prince’s online activities: ‘how to tell if you have a crush on someone,’ ‘how do you know if you’re gay,’ ‘how do you know if you’re in love with your best friend.’
Noct just grins, lopsided. “Yes, Marshal?”
Cor clears his throat. “Ah. When you’re ready, I’ll give you the details on where to find the batteries we discussed.” And then he’s gone.
The crackle of the radio fills the silence for a moment, and then Noct pulls Prompto back close again, and they both shake with laughter.
There’s no time to do this properly, no dramatic confession, no promise he can make. Just a question, asked and answered. One moment to cherish along with the rest.
Noct stops early, with a stitch in his side, for a badly needed water break. Even months later, he’s still recovering from very-nearly-almost-but-not-quite dying. No one gives him crap for cutting out a bit early to lean against a shady tree and wait for the rest of them to finish.
The work crew is sweating out in the sun, hoisting beams and carrying bricks and doing the long hard work of rebuilding the world with shaking arms and calloused palms. No one much seems to mind, though; it's work that feels good. The radio’s playing a new song, something that came out a few months ago, recorded on equipment scavenged from a wrecked Insomnian recording studio. A few of the builders sing along.
They've been building these little houses for weeks, so it’s become a well-worn routine; sweaty, heavy work made lighter by many willing hands. The settlement is built in the shadow of Insomnia, meant to house the workers and families who will begin the hard work of figuring out what to do with the city.
Ignis is overseeing the effort to mine its resources, evaluate the infrastructure, and lay some old ghosts to rest. Gladio is in charge of the crews. None of them wanted to go back to Lestallum after the Dawn; not even after Noct finally woke up weeks later.
This is home.
Noct watches the work. He knew some of these people Before; not too many, and not too well. Some of them know who he was, but no one makes a fuss about it; there's no monarchy now, no kinghood to weigh on Noct's shoulders. Which is good. He’s out of practice with people, tires easily in big groups like this as he second-guesses himself. Tires easily in general, though that’s getting better.
Prompto knows everyone, of course. He’s laughing as he carries a beam with a group of Hunters-turned-builders. There’s much less of a nervous edge to him now; he’s gained an ease that suits his big-hearted energy well.
When the group sets the last beam down, he turns and catches Noct looking, and his smile grows even brighter.
It doesn’t take long until he’s picked his way back to Noct. He takes the canteen Noct holds out gratefully, takes a long drink. Noct lets himself admire the rise and swell of his throat as he swallows, the bead of sweat that trickles down to rest in the hollow of his throat.
Prompto wipes his mouth, gives the mostly-empty canteen back, and takes Noct’s other hand in his. “You ready to get outta here?”
"Your place or mine?" Noct says suavely, taking advantage of the newfound rasp in his voice as he runs his thumb along the ridges of Prompto's knuckles.
"They're the same place, you dork," Prompto says, all fondness, linking his arm through Noct's and tugging him along.
Their place is just like the house they worked on today will be once it’s done, but built a couple of months back. It’s just like all the others next to it, but everyone’s starting to do a bit to make the houses feel like homes. Prompto planted a prickly little scrub bush outside theirs; Noct painted the front door bright chocobo yellow, just to see Prompto smile.
He smiles again today when they reach the door; he does every time they come back home.
They both do.
There’s a camp shower out back with a stall, and they take turns washing off the grime of the day. (Now that Noct washes his own sheets he sees Ignis’s point about never getting into bed sweaty.) Prompto goes first, since he’s worse off, and then it’s Noct’s turn to shiver beneath the spray of chilly water. They have an old shower curtain rigged up, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to casually bathing outdoors with the neighbors chatting out on the stoop next door.
When Noct comes back inside, Prompto is on his stomach on the bed with an old magazine in front of him. He’s dressed for bed, in one of Noct’s old t-shirts, plus his boxers and an ancient pair of glasses. His hair is slightly darker with the damp, and he looks clean and comfortable.
“Not going out on the town tonight, I take it?” Noct flops down next to Prompto, tangling their fingers together.
Prompto tosses the magazine aside with his free hand, then curls onto his side so that they’re nose to nose. “Nah,” he says, breezy. “Think I need some alone time."
“You want me to go?” Noct teases, even as Prompto presses a kiss into his forehead.
“You don’t count,” Prompto murmurs into his ear, and Noct never doubts that it’s a compliment.