Chapter Text
Noctis walks through the Citadel corridors until he reaches the heart, then he slows his pace. And then he stops altogether.
This area is bright and unimposing enough, almost peaceful even, with the sunlight shining in through the windows along the curving wall to his right. But sounds also seem to carry eerily well here, and he can make out voices in the distance.
He starts walking again.
It’s like he’s wading through water. Each step feels heavy and slow, a chore. Dread seeps down from the back of his throat the closer he gets to the open doorway in the centre of the corridor, it leaks into his chest and into his gut until he feels like he might drown in it.
He should turn back. He should be meeting Ignis instead. Noctis said he would be waiting for him. He shouldn’t be in this part of the Citadel.
The guards let him past without question, without hesitation, and he steps into the dark tunnel beyond. His boots sound loud when they hit the metal steps. He almost winces from it.
The temperature is cooler here, in the corridor outside the vault. Cool and charged with energy, static in the air prickling against his goosebumped skin. Noctis breathes it in, and it feels like breathing in the winter air from outside, it feels like a storm is about to ravage the city despite the calm weather and blue skies.
He shouldn’t be here.
Cor stands before the open vault, shoulders straight, head held high, hands clasped behind his back. Tall and imposing, a sentry on guard, unmoveable, and unfazed by the mist slowly spilling out into the corridor. Ghost-like, wispy, shimmering a little under the few electric lights they have here.
He doesn’t notice Noctis approaching, too busy giving orders to the soldiers around them, but the two guards standing to attention on either side of the vault do. They turn as one to face him, fists hitting their chests, head bowing.
Noctis really isn’t in the mood for that.
Cor looks his way immediately, finally noticing him. “Your Highness.” His hand comes up, fist pressed to his heart, head bowing. He turns back to his task just as smoothly. “What brings you here?”
Noctis shrugs, swallowing past the lump in his throat, eyes on the open vault. He moves to stand beside Cor, taking in another deep breath, feeling it go down his lungs like frost coating his airways. “Just curious,” he mutters.
“It’s a routine inspection,” Cor informs him. “We carry them out within the entire vault on regular intervals. The doors, the locking mechanisms, the computers, the chamber inside. To ensure the safety of the Crystal and see that everything is in order.”
Noctis watches the soldiers deep within the vault, their shadowy figures moving around inside the lavishly decorated chamber, mist at their feet and tiny flickers of colour dancing along the walls from the light leaking through the gaps in the Crystal’s casing.
“Yeah, I know,” he replies, keeping his voice quiet. “And the King would usually oversee it.”
He sees Cor slide a glance down at him. “The King is needed elsewhere at the moment.”
He knows that too. In a council meeting with men and women who are growing impatient with Noctis and his so-called reluctance to step into his role as heir. He had seen the way two of them had stormed out of the council chamber, muttering between themselves about mounting frustrations and doubts surrounding Noctis, oblivious to him waiting for Ignis in a quiet part of the hall.
“That boy is ill-prepared for the throne.”
Noctis stares into the vault, still breathing in the cool air leaking out from it. The mist reaches him where he stands, swims around his boots in shimmering opal.
The council wants him to begin preparing. He’s eighteen now, he’s done with school, it’s time for him to start stepping further into his role as a prince and take on more responsibilities. It’s time for him to forge his magical bonds with Gladio and Ignis.
It’s so easy for them to say. It’s so easy for them to gossip and whisper amongst themselves about it. Noctis hadn’t been able to wait around for Ignis, to see the faces of the other council members, knowing they all felt the same way about him. He had pocketed his phone and slipped away through a side corridor, letting his feet carry him through the Citadel.
Until he ended up here.
He can feel the hum of energy here. Strong and constant and loud against his skin. The power of the Crystal harnessed to create the Wall above and around. Bright and alive within the chamber. A constant drain on his father’s life force.
“What if the King were to die tomorrow? That boy would be dropped straight into a war with Niflheim and he has no clue about any of it.”
Noctis sighs heavily. His chest feels constricted.
“Everything alright?” Cor mutters, too quiet for everyone around them to hear. The soldiers are all too busy performing their duties to listen in anyway.
“Time’s getting on,” Noctis mutters back. “I have to give Gladio and Ignis access to my magic.”
“You know your father is more than willing to wait longer for you—”
“I know,” Noctis cuts him off. “But we can’t wait longer. The council won’t want to wait longer.” He sees movement in the corners of his eyes; Cor turning his head to look down at him with a small frown. Noctis tries to keep his face neutral, to hide the way his stomach already feels like it’s flipping with nerves.
He takes a deep breath. “I want to forge the bonds with them.”
After a moment, Cor says, “I’m to give His Majesty a report on the vault when we’re done here. I’ll let him know, shall I?”
“No. I’ll do it.” Noctis swallows thickly, looking back at the chamber within. “I’ll go with you.”
*
“I must confess, Noct,” his father says. “This is rather unexpected. May I ask what brought this on so suddenly?”
Noctis makes sure to stand still and to stand tall. To appear confident, sure of himself, no matter how small he may feel in his father’s office. Cor stands off in the corner, behind his father and to the right, Clarus to the left, both watching him with unreadable gazes.
Noctis resists the urge to shift on his feet. He looks back at his father, sitting on the opposite side of the large mahogany desk strewn with paperwork. “I just think it’s time we get this done. That’s all.”
His father stares up at him in silence. He leans forward and clasps his hands over the desk, eyeing Noctis seriously. “I understand how overwhelming things must be at the moment. You have finished school and you are now facing the expectations of taking on more responsibilities with your role in this kingdom.”
“I’m not overwhelmed,” Noctis says. And it’s true, he isn’t. He’s known for a long time what would be expected of him once he was done with high school.
“I am not going to saddle you with everything all at once,” his father says. “I have always wanted you to live a normal, peaceful life as much as you could. Yes, you do need to take on responsibilities, but I do not expect you to undertake everything immediately. I have no qualms with taking it slowly and easing you into it.”
Yeah, he knows that. And he knows the council begrudges them both for it.
“Ignis and Gladio are Crownsguard officers now,” Noctis tries. “It’s not fair to make them wait like this.”
“Perhaps. But I fear making you take on too much too soon could overburden you,” his father admits. “Especially forging your bonds with Ignis and Gladiolus. It is magic you are not used to. I want you to be more prepared for it.”
Noctis deliberates for a moment. He looks up at Cor, silent and observant, his eyes having never left Noctis this whole time. Then he shifts his gaze to Clarus, who is just as watchful, just as thoughtful.
Noctis looks down at his father’s hands, still clasped on the desk. The Ring of the Lucii on his finger.
“That boy is ill-prepared for the throne.”
He says, “I know the council is upset with you. About me.”
His father’s head tilts a little. Just a little, barely perceptible, but Noctis has been watching his father all his life and so he sees it. He’s angry.
“I was waiting for Ignis outside the council chamber,” Noctis explains. “Two members came out early. Lord Caius, and some other guy. I don’t know his name.”
His father’s eyes darken a little at that, his lips thinning, and Noctis has to wonder just what had gone on in that chamber for those two men to leave before the rest of them and for his father to openly look this way now.
“Lord Caius,” Noctis continues, taking a breath, “He said something about how I’m ill-prepared for the throne. How you’re indulgent of my leisurely lifestyle and you let me run around to do as I please.”
His father shakes his head. “Lord Caius and Lord Doren were ejected from the council meeting for inappropriate and disrespectful remarks. You need not concern yourself with what they said. I can assure you they are far from true.”
Noctis knows how the council members feel about him. The rest of the noble families, too, the ones who hold themselves close to court, who send their sons and daughters to become Crownsguard officers and Citadel staff. He can see the way they cast sidelong glances at him and mutter whenever he attends one of their more formal events. They’ll do it at the winter gala in a couple of days, too, and he’s already dreading the idea of it.
They have doubts about him and his future on the throne, and postponing this ritual again and again with both Gladio and Ignis has done no favours for any of them regarding that.
“It’s not just them, though, is it?” Noctis shoots back. “I know they’re all getting frustrated.”
“Noct,” his father suddenly looks very serious, eyes boring into Noctis’s, his voice level when he says, “I will not have you rush yourself into your duties simply to please my council. We can wait. We can take our time. I want you to take your time.”
Noctis thinks about it, but he still can’t forget the remarks he heard today. He can’t ignore that the men and women on the council are putting unnecessary pressure onto his father’s already overburdened shoulders. And he can’t ignore the fact that it’s his fault.
Everyone thinks he isn’t ready. And maybe he’s not, maybe he never will be. But he has to take the leap. For the safety of the kingdom and for the satisfaction of the council. For Ignis and Gladio. For his father. For himself.
Noctis tries not to sound so small when he says, “I want to do it.”
His father sighs and leans back in his seat, frowning up at him. Contemplating. Torn. His fingers tapping rhythmically on the mahogany desk.
Clarus says, “Perhaps it is not such a terrible idea.”
His father hums.
“Have His Highness forge his bonds now,” Clarus continues, eyes on his king. “Silence the council and any doubts they may have. That he approached us with his own decisions regarding the matter would work in his favour, it would be seen as him taking initiative. And this is considered the first, crucial step; we can focus on everything else at a later time.”
“Yes, thank you, Clarus,” his father murmurs, though his eyes never leave Noctis’s.
Noctis forces himself not to break his gaze. To keep his head high. Resolute. Determined.
Eventually, his father leans forward again. “Very well. I will allow you to forge your bonds. With your Shield first, and then Ignis if permissible.” His eyebrows go up before Noctis can even think of what to say, his voice firmer, leaving no room for argument. “However, I reserve the right to halt the initiation if I see fit. If it is too overwhelming for you, if anything goes wrong at all, I will suspend it.”
Noctis feels a little lightheaded already. “Okay,” he murmurs quickly. He bows his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
His father sighs. “It is not because I am your King, Noct,” he says, and when Noctis looks up again his eyes are soft, exasperated, warm, concerned.
Noctis finds he can muster a small smile for him. “Yeah, alright.”
*
It takes another day, and hours upon hours of discussions, and Noctis has to wonder how much of it might be his father trying to stall things for another few days, a week, maybe longer. But Noctis is resolute and he holds his ground; they have the annual winter gala coming up and his father will make a speech and Noctis wants to walk into that party with his head high, knowing the council can finally leave his father alone about this.
It’s one thing planning that, another thing feeling it.
They gather together in an old, disused hall overlooking the city, in a quiet wing of the Citadel where no one can bother them, where staff won’t see anything and whisper amongst themselves. The room is almost overwhelmingly bright, the floorboards are a little dusty and the air is cool, but it'll do.
Noctis has been dreading this for far too long, he finds he wishes he could take it back already, get them all to leave again, give him a little more time to prepare.
He takes a deep breath and lets it back out slowly, ignoring the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. He holds out his hands and asks, “You ready?”
Gladio gives him a grin, part excited, part self-conscious. “I feel like I should be asking you that,” he says. Noctis fights back a flinch at that remark, heart stuttering in his chest a little. Is he really that transparent?
But then he notices the way Gladio hesitates to step forward, just the slightest pause, his eyes flickering up and down for just a second. He’s nervous, Noctis realises, and it’s a bit of a relief to see it. Gladio is usually all attitude, cocksure, overconfident, and, admittedly, easily able to adapt to most situations he’s thrown into and keep his cool.
But now Gladio, of all people, is nervous, and he’s fighting both to control it and deflect it.
Noctis flexes his fingers in the air. “Come here, already.”
Gladio takes the step forward and wraps his hands around Noctis’s outstretched arms. Noctis does the same with his own, curling his fingers around Gladio’s wrists, trying to pretend his grip doesn’t feel clammy and shaky. If Gladio notices then he doesn’t give anything away about it.
“It is just as we discussed,” his father says, standing off to Noctis’s left. Clarus and Cor stand on either side of him, tall, broad sentries with serious faces, eyes locked on Noctis and Gladio. It’s hard to imagine the three of them going through this too once upon a time. It’s hard to imagine his father’s face smoothed with youth and his hair free of grey hair.
He has to wonder if they had been just as scared to do this all those years ago.
“Right,” Noctis answers, swallowing past the lump growing in his throat. He flexes his grip on Gladio’s wrists. “It’s like claiming the weapons, right?”
“You’re not claiming me,” Gladio mutters. To the other side of them, Ignis lets out an abrupt cough, covering his mouth with a hand to hide his amused smile. Noctis glares at him for it anyway.
His father looks just as humoured. “Whenever you are ready, Noct.”
Whenever he’s ready. He’s not ready. Not at all. He’s been putting this off again and again, for as long as he could get away with, and he knows they’re all aware of that.
But it is way past due.
It’s true that, while this has been a tradition when the heir turns eighteen, his father has been lenient with those kinds of things. He’s never piled tradition and royal responsibilities onto Noctis’s shoulders; he's always encouraged him to live his life a little more normally instead. His father even aided him with his delays, giving him excuses, hand waving this as something that could always be done later.
But both Gladio and Ignis have passed their Crownsguard examinations, they’ve officially joined the ranks, and as people who will be working extremely close to Noctis in the future, as his Shield and his chamberlain, as close advisors, it’s best to get them adapted to Noctis’s magic now rather than later.
It’s just that Noctis doesn’t really know how to do this. He knows how, he knows the technicalities, he knows what to do in theory, but not about applying it. His magic has been a slow and rocky climb ever since he was eight years old, ever since any potential was abruptly cut off from him, and getting it to actually work these days is always a difficult task. It’s nearly always exhausting.
He suddenly wishes he hadn’t put it off for so long. He’s supposed to go to the light show with Prompto tomorrow evening, and then get back to the Citadel in time to attend his father’s speech at the gala. But he feels so sick with nerves already, how is he supposed to face this, and then act all calm and collected and together around everyone for the rest of the day and tomorrow combined?
But he can’t put it off anymore.
Gladio’s fingers give a gentle squeeze around his wrists. Noctis blinks and looks up, to see Gladio staring right back at him, his eyebrows raised. Waiting. Expecting. And, when he looks, everyone else is still staring at him too. Cor and Clarus, their faces unreadable, eyes piercing. Ignis, with thinly-veiled worry. His father, who looks both concerned and understanding at the same time.
It should be a comfort, but it’s not. Noctis stares at his dad, then swallows around the lump in his throat again. He looks down at his hands, still wrapped around Gladio’s forearms.
Here goes nothing.
He takes another deep breath. He tries to gather his magic to the surface, willing it to flow through his veins, to reach his fingertips. To break through and into Gladio’s own flesh. He pushes.
Nothing happens.
“Anytime, Noct,” Gladio murmurs.
“Shut up,” Noctis snaps back. Maybe a little too harshly. He sees Ignis’s head jerk in surprise in his peripheral vision, and Gladio’s eyebrows shoot upwards again.
He takes another breath. Wraps his fingers tighter around Gladio’s wrists.
Why does magic have to be so hard? It’s never been hard for those who came before him. Not for his father, who maintains the Wall while channelling magic both to his most trusted Crownsguard and the entire Kingsglaive. Not for his grandfather, not for everyone who came before them, those who have statues all around Insomnia, who wielded magic like they were otherworldly, like they were god-chosen, warriors who didn’t just inherit a throne but made sure they claimed it for their own, established their rule by wielding their magical birthright.
Why does he have to be so different from them all?
He lets out a heavy breath, suddenly realising he’s squeezing Gladio’s wrists a little too hard, his own knuckles turning white. He eases his grasp, face growing warm, murmuring, “Sorry.”
Gladio gives him a small, encouraging grin this time. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You can do this.”
“Do not force it, Noct,” his father says. “Let your magic flow with you.”
Easy for him to say, Noctis thinks bitterly, and then immediately feels a flash of shame at that thought, averting his gaze from his father’s.
Maybe this is why he can’t use his magic properly. He’s not worthy of it.
He flexes his fingers on Gladio’s wrists and closes his eyes, focusing again. He wishes they had chosen a different room to do this in. The windows to his right are floor to ceiling, lining the entire wall to overlook the city beyond, and the light is almost painful even with his eyes closed.
He focuses on his magic, tries to let it build in his chest, imagining it gathering there, forming and swirling and growing stronger. He thinks he can feel it spreading and he clings to that, tries to push it outwards, from his chest to his arms, down to his hands, to his fingers.
“Hey—” Gladio mutters.
It’s working, Noctis thinks. It’s working, it’s working, he can feel it move through him, in his blood, in his bones, along every little nerve, crawling and branching through like the roots of a tree, like the mist coming from that chamber within the vault. He holds onto it, breathes it in and pushes it out, and he thinks about the way he’s managed to claim his weapons and hide them away with his magic, and he pushes that magic through his fingers, to Gladio, wills him to have it too, to be able to grasp and form and push and pull and—
There.
It’s like a punch to his chest. It shoves out of him and into Gladio. Noctis doubles over, gasping, coughing against the sudden burning from his lungs up to his throat, his eyes watering, his skin tingling like he’s been shocked, head throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
Gladio is doubled over in front of him too, a hand to his sternum, just as breathless, eyes squinting like he’s dazed or pained. Ignis leans over him, wide eyed and concerned, muttering something Noctis can’t hear because of the way his ears ring.
There’s a hand on his own back. Large and warm and gentle and comforting. “You did it, Noct,” a voice says, somewhere past the noise, breath on the back of his neck and ruffling his hair. “You did it. Well done. I’m proud of you.”
Noctis looks up at his dad’s face. “I did it?”
“Yes,” his father nods, smiling a little, pride in his eyes. And sympathy. He seems to take in the way Noctis feels, his hand coming to brush at his hair. “It is always difficult the first time. I thought I would combust when I gave Clarus my magic. But it does get easier. I swear it.”
He doesn’t know how it can get any easier, but he guesses it can’t really get any worse. Nocis doesn’t just feel like he’ll combust. He feels like he’s about to turn to ash.
But Gladio is already recovering, talking with Ignis in low tones. He has a weary, surprised grin on his face and a hand still pressed against his chest, but he’s standing up straight and breathing normally again, a spark in his eyes.
Noctis has to be okay again too. Because now it’s Ignis’s turn.
He straightens up, and his heart only pounds a little bit faster, he only feels a little dizzy, it only feels a little weird to breathe. “I wanna go again,” he murmurs.
His father frowns, unsure, and eyes him up and down, taking everything in. Noctis forces himself to act normal, to appear unaffected. His father sighs. “Noct, are you certain? We—”
“I’m sure,” Noctis says. They’re already gathered here, they might as well. And he wants to get this over with now. He’s not sure he can let the apprehension build up a second time after what he’s experienced of this so far.
His father nods and steps aside reluctantly, and Noctis seizes the opportunity to signal Ignis.
Ignis squeezes Gladio’s shoulder, giving him a small smile, then crosses the short distance to Noctis. “Are you alright?” he asks, sizing Noctis up and down. “That looked difficult.”
Noctis shrugs and glances up when his father backs away again to stand with Cor and Clarus. “Apparently it gets easier,” he says, looking back at Ignis. He lifts his hands and beckons him, and he’s suddenly reminded of the two of them as little kids, running through the Citadel hallways laughing and beckoning to each other under festive decorative lights.
Ignis steps forward, suddenly hesitant. Noctis can tell he wants to ask if he’s up to this. He can see it in the way Ignis quirks an eyebrow at him, the way he ducks his head a little, but he’s reluctant to speak up in front of the King and his superior officers. As if Cor and Clarus aren’t practically family, as if Noctis doesn’t have memories of being up on Cor’s shoulders to decorate a tree the way Ignis wanted it, as if Clarus didn’t sneak them both tiny chocolates before bed on a few festive celebrations.
Seems like Noctis isn’t the only one trying to put on a brave face. First Gladio. Cocky, arrogant, tough-as-hell Gladio. And now Ignis, who is never afraid to take on a challenge, and who always puts Noctis before himself.
So he definitely has to do this for Ignis. He has to be strong. He has to be a leader.
Silently, he holds out his hands, beckoning again.
Ignis stands in the same spot Gladio had been in. Feet apart, braced, his fingers wrapped around Noctis’s wrists, firmly but gently. With his father, Cor, and Clarus watching, and Gladio now standing off to the side, his back to the windows, arms folded across his chest, gaze intense. It doesn’t feel any less overwhelming than the first time.
Then Cor mutters, “Perhaps it is too soon. To do one so quickly after the other. Surely Gladio alone is enough for now.”
“You’ve heard the council,” Clarus mutters back. “There is only so much stalling on this that we can do. They’re becoming restless.”
His father makes a displeased noise. “I care not for the complaining of those who do not understand how taxing magic can be,” he says, and there’s something almost angry in his tone. “Especially for someone so young and inexperienced. However, Noct wants to do this, so let us see where this goes. If it does turn out to be too much, then I will postpone it further.”
“The council will not enjoy that,” Clarus replies.
Noctis lets out a breath and glares at them. “I can hear you.”
His father gives him an apologetic look.
Ignis suddenly looks like he’s reconsidering, his eyes on the King, slowly turning a worried gaze back to Noctis. His fingers slacken on Noctis’s arms.
Noctis shakes his head at him. “I’m fine.” His chest feels weird and his head is a little fuzzy, but it’s nothing. “I can do this.”
He squeezes Ignis’s wrists and, after a moment, Ignis squeezes back.
It’s not any easier. It’s harder. It’s worse. Noctis feels for that magic again, to let it build and swirl and flow, he tries to breathe it in and swallow it down and be one with it. It’s in his veins, in his head, in his heart, he was born with it, and so it should come to him as naturally as breathing.
He tries to push it through Ignis, from his own fingertips and into the warm skin in his grasp, the way he had with Gladio. It hurts to even try, it steals his breath away. And nothing happens.
He tries it again and his heart pounds in his chest and nothing happens.
And he tries it again and nothing happens.
“Noct,” Ignis says, somewhere far away. He sounds doubtful. Concerned.
“Perhaps you are right,” Clarus says somewhere else. “This might be too much for one day.”
They all doubt him. Everyone doubts him. He can’t let that happen.
Noctis thinks of the Crystal, within the heart of the Citadel, hidden away in that lavish chamber with its cool mist and its dancing opal lights, and he thinks about how easy it had been to use his magic as a kid. Before the daemon attack. Before that part of him had been silenced.
He just has to do it. Breathe it in, take it in, let it move through his body, through his organs, his bones, his veins, crawl along his skin, like branching trees, like lightning, like cracks carving their way through crystal. His heart pounds again in his chest and his ears ring so loud he thinks he’s deaf from it and his head feels like it’s going to explode, but—
He pushes it through, to Ignis’s fingers, to his hands, to his arms, maybe a little too much, but it works, it works, he feels it rush out of him, like a blast, like a punch to his gut again, and Ignis’s hands disappear and Noctis doubles over with a groan, his whole body throbbing.
“I gotcha, I gotcha,” Gladio is saying, steadying Ignis, who looks just as dazed, his hand pressed to his chest, mouth open, eyes wide.
Noctis winces at the light blazing in through the windows. He raises a hand to shield his eyes from it, even though his arm hardly wants to move. His entire body aches and vibrates with every breath, he wants to never move again.
His father is holding onto him with both hands on his back now, near his shoulders, murmuring, “You did it, you did very well, it’s over now, Noct—”
Noctis takes in a breath. It feels weird, like his lungs can’t move properly, can’t take in air completely. His chest stutters and aches and feels rough on the inside and his heart is still pounding and his ears are still ringing, the rush of blood roaring through his head.
Ignis is already recovering. Straightening up. Getting over it just as quickly as Gladio had done. And they both look back at him with surprised grins, perhaps a little giddy, like they’re high, relief and wonder and pride in their eyes.
Oh, no. They can’t look at him that way when he feels like this. Noctis straightens his back even though the world spins around him. “You guys okay?” he asks.
“Chest feels weird,” Gladio says. “But I’m good.”
“A little dizzy,” Ignis admits, nodding, “but I think that’s to be expected.”
“It can be intense for a few days,” Clarus says, stepping forward to speak with them. The movement makes Noctis nauseous, his head still spinning, words coming in and out, “—emotionally and physically. Regis and I experienced the same thing.”
Noctis’s father is smiling, suddenly standing beside Clarus, pressing a hand to his shoulder. How do they all keep moving around so easily and quickly?
“Your father was a bit of a bear about it,” his dad says to Gladio. “I think we were both a little insufferable those few days.”
“You mean you were,” Clarus says. “The whole ordeal seemed to make you manic.”
Ignis and Gladio are grinning, and Noctis’s father sniffs, saying, “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
Noctis blinks slowly. The world is still spinning, coming in and out of focus, his vision pulsing, sounds still coming and going. His chest hurts. His lungs hurt. He can’t breathe properly. His fingertips tingle.
Ignis is looking at him, though Noctis can’t make out the expression on his face through the haze. “—all right, Noct?”
No, he’s not. “I’m good,” Noctis says. He takes a step forward to join them.
His vision goes grey.
When it comes back, he’s on the floor, leaning back against something warm and firm, staring up at the concerned faces hovering over him, as blurry as they are.
Noctis tries to move, to get up, hand slapping to the cold floorboards, but his head is still swimming and his heart beats a little too hard in his chest. “What happened,” he murmurs, “I don’t—”
There are hands on his shoulders, from behind, keeping him in place. Gladio’s hand comes down to press on him too, resting firmly on his chest. “Whoa, Noct,” he’s saying, “take it easy. Don’t move just yet.”
“You fainted,” Ignis adds. “Give yourself a moment to adjust.”
The warm thing behind him shifts a little. Noctis frowns, confused, and looks over his shoulder. It’s Cor holding onto him from behind, apparently having moved faster than all of them to catch him as he went down.
“Alright?” Cor murmurs.
Noctis’s face feels like it’s burning. “Yeah.” He looks up at Gladio and Ignis again, then at his father, who looks so torn, unable to get down on the floor with him because of his bad knee and Clarus holding a hand to his chest to keep him back, to prevent him from doing anything rash that would affect his own health.
The sight of it punches Noctis in his gut. “Sorry,” he says, embarrassed and ashamed and guilty. This was supposed to be a triumphant moment. An accomplishment. And he’s gone and ruined it. Why does everything have to be so difficult?
His father shakes his head, solemn, concerned. “You have nothing to apologise for,” he says. “You exerted a lot of magical energy in such a short time, and in a way you are not used to. I should be the one to apologise; I know how much you struggle with magic. I shouldn’t have let you continue.”
Noctis nods just as a way to respond, trying to keep his face neutral. His dad is trying to comfort him, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. It makes him feel worse.
Cor’s hands are still on his shoulders, heavy weights, keeping him down. “Take a few minutes,” he murmurs from behind Noctis. “Catch your breath back.”
Noctis blinks. He’s still breathing a little oddly, he realises. Stuttering breaths. It aches to pull air into his lungs, like it’s made of sand and scrapes at his chest going down. He feels heavy and cold on the inside. He presses a hand to his chest, willing it to go back to normal, to move in and out the way it should.
He can see Gladio and Ignis frowning, the two of them suddenly staring at him oddly, but neither of them say anything.
The ache and the cold don’t quite go away, but he does manage to get his breathing back under control. He’s still aware of his own heartbeat and his head feels fuzzy, but he can fake it now.
He slowly gets back to his feet with Cor’s help, and he manages to remain steady once he’s upright again.
“You are your father’s son,” Clarus mutters. “Stubborn as hell.”
Ignis still looks concerned, thoughtful, but Gladio steps forward with a small grin. He seems a little more relaxed now. “Gave us one hell of a fright there, kid,” he says. His hand comes down onto Noctis’s shoulder, squeezing. Noctis nearly buckles under the weight of it, an ache running through every muscle and bone, but he fights to remain on his feet, to look normal.
“Sorry,” he says again, avoiding Gladio’s eyes. Noctis sees the way his grin drops a little, and he quickly looks away.
“You did well,” his father says. He still looks concerned. “How do you feel?”
Awful. Like he’s about to drop down again at any moment. “Tired,” Noctis admits. “I didn’t realise just how much that’d take outta me.”
His father gives an understanding nod. “You need to rest. Take things more slowly as much as you can for now. If you wish to abstain from the gala tomorrow night, then I am more than willing to—”
Noctis shakes his head, then wishes he hadn’t, blinking against the sensation of it. “No, it’s fine. I said I’ll go.” He doesn’t want to give the council any more reasons to bitch at his father and lay on more pressure that he doesn’t need. Some of them will be appeased with the fact that Noctis has finally given his magic to both Gladio and Ignis, but, for some of them, it still won’t be enough.
They’ll always find something to complain about, and Noctis not being a good enough prince in their eyes, not attending all the events he should, not doing the things they want him to do, that will always add fuel to the fire.
His father doesn’t need any of that.
“Very well,” his father says. He steps closer, hand coming to rest gently on Noctis’s shoulder. “But, please, Noct. I implore you. Take it easy until then.”
Noctis nods. “I will.”
His father smiles down at him. Warm, proud, sympathetic. He looks over at Gladio and Ignis as they come closer again. “Please. Take care of my son.”
*
He doesn’t have the energy to make the trip back to his apartment. It doesn’t seem to surprise anyone; in fact, Ignis seemed to have anticipated that, escorting Noctis to his rooms in the Citadel before he and Gladio made a trip to get something to eat.
The three of them end up crowding around the coffee table in the antechamber of Noctis’s rooms, with plates of food Gladio and Ignis had gathered from the mess hall. Fresh out of the kitchen too, the food was still hot under the plastic wrap when they’d brought it all the way up to Noctis.
“I gotta admit,” Gladio says, “the whole thing is a little—I don’t know. A bit anticlimactic? It wasn’t at all what I expected it to be like.”
Noctis grunts, twirling his fork against some of the food on his plate. His appetite has gone, jumped out of the window to ditch him, but he’s keenly aware of Ignis and Gladio, watching and ready to nag at him like fussing parents the moment they decide he’s not eating enough.
“What did you expect?” Ignis teases, a small smirk on his lips. “Big flashing lights and ringing bells, or, day I say, magical confetti?”
Gladio laughs. “Man, screw you,” he says, then shoves another forkful of food into his mouth. He seems almost giddy, hopped up on adrenaline, like he needs to go and work all the excess energy out in the gym or in the training hall. “I just thought it’d be different,” he continues once he’s swallowed down his food. He takes a long drink of water. “Don’t get me wrong, Noct, you did awesome. It was just different from what I was anticipating. All that build up, and now here we are. We’re just eating like it’s any other day.”
“I suppose I see what you mean,” Ignis says. Noctis looks up at him, to see the thoughtful look on his face again. “Although His Majesty and your father both warned us we would be feeling the effects of the magic for a few days. So, perhaps, not as anticlimactic as you think.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Gladio nods his head at Noctis. “What about you? How are you doing?”
Not great. At all. “I’m fine,” Noctis answers, but his voice comes out a little too quiet. He clears his throat and glares at Gladio. “Wasn’t so anticlimactic for me, was it? Got hit in the solar plexus twice with that magic, and now I’m stuck with your face for the rest of my life.”
Gladio grins widely, unaffected. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, Noct.”
That gets a laugh out of him, as breathless as he feels, and even Ignis chuckles as he picks at his plate. And Noctis is hit with the sudden, strong camaraderie of the moment. They’ve all gone through their individual training, destined to step into their specific roles in the kingdom, and they’ve been building up to this moment for a long time now. To become a team, officially, in the eyes of the King and the council and the nobility, not just in their own heads. Bound by oath and magic both now.
He already feels like he’s going to let them down. It had been too hard to forge his bonds with them. He has to do better next time.
“What did you mean?” Ignis asks suddenly. “Just now, when you said you were hit in the solar plexus.”
Noctis hesitates, then shrugs. “Just an expression.”
Ignis looks curious for some reason. “Really?” he says. “When you transferred your magic to me, when it worked, I suddenly felt a pain in my chest. As though I couldn’t breathe. I’d wondered if it was simply a side effect of receiving access to your magic, but now I have to wonder how much of it was the transference your father spoke of.”
Gladio nods, frowning now. “Yeah, come to think of it, I felt the same way. Like I got kicked right in my sternum.”
“What do you want me to say?” Noctis replies, and perhaps it comes out a little too defensive if the way they both look at him is anything to go by. “It took a lot out of me, okay?” he tries. “Magic isn’t easy, you know.” Not for him, anyway.
Ignis gives him another one of those concerned looks. “You’re alright though, aren’t you?”
“You gotta tell us if you’re not doing well, Noct,” Gladio adds. “How else are we supposed to work as a team if we’re not communicating properly?”
Noctis tries not to feel so guilty at that, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “I’m fine,” he says.
Because he will be, even if he doesn’t feel like it right now. It’s just a few side effects of the magic, and it will all be over within a few days.
Chapter Text
He wakes up coughing and sweating. His skin feels like it’s burning. Itchy and tingling and sensitive. His t-shirt sticks to him uncomfortably. He thinks he sees colours dancing on the ceiling above him, a brief lilac ripple, a flashing light, fireflies in his vision. The windows are bright behind the curtains, but he feels like he hasn’t slept through the night at all. He wants to lie back down, bury himself underneath the covers and sleep forever.
Noctis pushes himself up in his bed, wrapping an arm around his stomach with a groan. He takes in a breath, and it stutters, it can’t seem to go all the way in, a small spark of pain shooting through his skin. His chest feels ice cold, like he’s frozen on the inside, and it hurts to take in air.
Noctis gasps at the feel of it, trying to catch his breath back, but that only makes it worse, coughs exploding out of him suddenly, rough and scraping on the inside. He stumbles to the bathroom, dizzy, and he leans heavily over the counter to cough into the sink until his ears ring and his head pounds.
His phone chimes from the bedroom, shrill, piercing. Noctis ignores it. There’s no way he can go over there right now. He hits the faucet and splashes cool water on his face, running it through his hair. It feels good on his skin, makes him feel a little better, a little more human.
Had it been like this for his dad? Noctis had anticipated the magical exhaustion, they’d discussed it at length multiple times. He had known it was a strong possibility that he would be tired for a while afterwards, but he didn’t think it would be quite like this. He didn’t expect to be coughing and shivering, with his hot skin and icy lungs, an ache running so deep into his bones he’s nearly floored from it.
And then he is on the floor, when he dares to stand a little straighter, when he pulls his hands away from the counter. Standing one moment, and then on the floor the next, his legs crumpling beneath him, the room swaying. A gasp rips from his chest and it aggravates his throat and he has to brace himself through another coughing fit.
He’s breathless from it after, and he leans against the base of the counter, heart beating faster in his chest. He just needs a moment. To catch his breath back, regain his strength, and then he can get up again.
His phone is still making noise in the other room. Not an alarm, he realises, all too late.
He hears his bedroom door open and Gladio’s voice calling out, “Can you answer your phone, kid, geez. Noct, where are you? You’re not gonna believe—” Gladio appears in the open doorway to the bathroom and freezes in place, his eyes widening, his phone still in his hand.
Noctis looks up at him and tries to open his mouth, to think of an excuse, but what excuse is there for being on the bathroom floor trying to catch his breath back?
Gladio moves instantly, his phone disappearing into his pocket. He crouches down beside Noctis, eyes moving up and down, assessing him, hands reaching out. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Noctis swallows and waves him off. He can breathe a little steadier now, and the room isn’t swaying that much anymore. “I’m fine.”
Gladio looks extremely doubtful. “Uh-huh. You wanna try that again?”
Noctis winces. He still doesn’t have a good excuse for this. “I just got a little dizzy,” he tries.
Gladio’s hand touches his forehead. His lips press together unhappily. “You’re warm,” he says. Noctis flinches away, and Gladio’s hand moves down to his chest instead, to press flat against his sternum. “You breathing okay?”
Noctis forces himself to breathe steadily, as uncomfortable as it is. He can’t manage it evenly enough, though, and he’s painfully aware that Gladio can tell.
Gladio hums, brow furrowed with concentration. “Your heart rate is up.”
“It’s creepy that you know that about me,” Noctis tries to joke.
But Gladio doesn’t take the bait this time, eyeing Noctis up and down like he’s considering taking him to one of the Citadel doctors. “Noct—”
“I’m fine,” Noctis says again, a little more pleading this time. “I’m tired and I got dizzy for a moment. Just side effects, yeah?”
That seems to work. Gladio blows out a frustrated breath. “Don’t push yourself, kid,” he says, and the genuine, raw concern in his voice hurts to hear, more than the ache in his bones. Noctis must have really frightened them all yesterday, when he’d blacked out after giving them his magic, and having Gladio find him like this is just going to make matters worse.
Noctis sighs. He has to get up now, even though he's not quite ready. He has to appear normal.
He manages to get his feet under him, keeping a hand on the counter to help steady himself as he rises. Gladio’s hands come out to help him, firm on his arm and waist, his eyes still a little worried.
Noctis shakes his head. “I’m alright. What time is it?” he stares up at Gladio. “What are you even doing here?”
“It’s after ten-thirty,” Gladio answers. He looks Noctis up and down again, the energy he came in with completely shifted into something far less enthused, and Noctis hates himself a little for that. “And I came to get you. There’s something you’ve gotta see. It’s probably related to how bad you feel, actually.”
Noctis opens his mouth to protest that, but Gladio can see right through him, cutting him off before he can even begin, saying, “Just grab some clothes and come see this, Noct.”
*
Gladio leads him to the same old, disused hall they stood in yesterday, and Noctis is surprised to see everyone else gathered there again when he steps inside. Cor, Clarus, his father. Gathered around Ignis, their faces unreadable when they all look up to watch the two of them approach.
The daylight is far too bright for his eyes, even worse than yesterday, and it takes everything within him not to shield his gaze from it. Noctis slows his steps, uneasy, finally noticing the dagger Ignis is holding onto when he gets close enough to see it.
He stares at it, and then looks up at his father. “What’s going on?”
Clarus gives Ignis a nod. “Can you do it again?”
He can’t read the look Ignis gives him then, but the uneasiness builds in his chest anyway. Then Ignis turns his attention back to the dagger in his hands. He holds it up, staring at it, concentrating.
And nothing happens.
Noctis shifts on his feet, glancing up at Gladio, ready to speak up again, but Gladio shakes his head before he can and motions for him to keep watching. “Come on, Iggy,” he says. “You probably just need to focus.”
Ignis scoffs and sends Gladio a withering glare, and it’s such a familiar thing, Noctis does that all the time to Gladio in training when he’s being a little too patronising or pushy, and the sight of it now has something like dread building in his stomach.
Ignis frowns at the dagger, his eyes tightening, knuckles white around the hilt of the weapon, and then—
It comes to life in his hands. Fire bursts out of nowhere, with a whoosh and everything, and Noctis flinches, watching as the flames envelope the dagger entirely. Ignis looks a little stunned too, eyes wide, the firelight flickering against his skin and his glasses, before it disappears entirely as the flames vanish.
The dread in Noctis’s stomach increases twofold.
“We’ve been training a little this morning,” Gladio says suddenly, voice jumping. Excited. He’s standing in front of the windows again, practically a shadowed form against the swirling bright white behind him. It hurts Noctis’s head to look his way.
“We were practising with the magic,” Gladio continues, “getting used to grabbing weapons and letting them go again. And then this,” he indicates to Ignis, letting out an amused and disbelieving huff of breath, “this just happened. He can light up his weapons with magic.”
“We were a little surprised when they showed us,” his father says, looking at Noctis. “I didn’t consider this a possibility considering your own difficulties with elemancy. Certainly not this soon.”
Noctis fights hard not to react to that. It’s not an insult. It’s not his father putting him down. He knows that. His dad has never begrudged or disparaged him for his struggles with any form of his magic. On the contrary, he has always been Noctis’s biggest supporter. He was the one to keep encouraging Noctis no matter how many times he struggled to nail down the basic skills like grabbing weapons and warping. He has always praised Noctis for what he can do rather than focus on what he can't.
It’s still hard to hear though.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Noctis mutters, shrugging. Why does it feel so hard to breathe again? “It must just come a little more naturally to him.”
At least the council can shut up about their concerns over the future of the Kingsglaive with this. Casting doubts on what their army would be like under Noctis’s rule and his stunted, broken magic. At least this is proof that Noctis can give them some power.
“Still,” his father says, his gaze moving between him and Ignis, “for this to happen so suddenly is a shock. I know I pushed you a little too hard yesterday—”
Noctis shakes his head. “You didn’t. It was my choice.”
His father levels him with a concerned look. “What happened? When you gave Ignis access to your magic, it did appear to be a stronger forging than with Gladiolus. Or a bigger push, at the least.”
“You must like him better, huh,” Gladio teases. “Am I too hard on you, is that it? You prefer Ignis fussing like a mother hen?”
“Gladio,” Ignis hisses, reprimanding, and Gladio snorts back a chuckle.
Noctis can’t find it in himself to join in, to come up with an insult for either of them, to continue with their usual banter. He stares at the dagger in Ignis’s hands and he suddenly feels very, very tired.
“I don’t know,” he says. But they need more than that for an answer, so he thinks back to yesterday. Holding onto Ignis, willing his magic to obey him, to do better. “It was harder than with Gladio,” he admits hesitantly, as loath as he is to say it out loud. “Probably because it was too soon. I had to try a little harder to give him access.”
“There’s no doubt you pushed yourself too hard,” Ignis says. “You were exhausted for the rest of the evening and the night.”
“This morning too,” Gladio mutters. Noctis can’t find the energy to glare at him for it, even when he catches Cor glancing between them, sharp eyed, always observant. Silent, but deep in thought.
Noctis swallows, trying not to feel weighed down by everyone’s eyes on him, somehow expecting answers he can’t give. “I just,” he stops, not sure how to explain it. “I wanted it to work. So I just pushed at it hard, and I tried to just—I don’t know, resonate with the Crystal or whatever, just use my pull on it—or its pull on me—whatever—”
“Could that have done it?” Clarus says, looking at Noctis’s father, a frown on his face.
His dad’s eyes never leave Noctis, even when he answers Clarus, concern etched onto his face and deepening the lines at his eyes. “The magic we wield, our elemancy, summoning our weapons, warping—it is all in thanks to the Crystal. We can use its power to guard its power. But to truly harness its raw energy, you need to bear the ring.”
“But could it be possible?” Clarus asks. “Perhaps it was a more intense form of what he can already do, only boosted with aid of the Crystal. And then the result is a sudden, short burst in power.” His eyes turn to Noctis, thoughtful. “It is essentially the same thing as you have done with the Kingsglaive. Haven’t you also wielded the Crystal’s magic a little more intensely to initiate some of the soldiers?”
His father seems to consider that. “Yes. I have.”
Noctis shifts under his gaze. “What?” he mutters. “Don’t look at me like that.”
His father smiles. “I’m merely concerned for you, Noct,” he says, and Noctis wants to cringe back under the honesty, the open affection, suddenly feeling small under all their gazes. “You are young and unused to such bursts of power.”
“I’m fine. It’s not like I meant to do it,” Noctis says. He looks at Ignis again, at the dagger in his hand resting near his thigh. Please don’t let him have screwed this up too. “So—what’s gonna happen to Ignis? Is he gonna be okay? Is this okay?”
“This is perfectly fine.” His father blinks, surprised. “When we share our magic with others, it is expected for some of them to display a few additional, and possibly unique, talents of their own. This took us by surprise, that is all, Noct. You have nothing to worry about.”
Clarus nods at Ignis. “If you can master conjuring flames on your weapons consistently, then you will be a powerful ally for His Highness.”
Ignis seems to both puff up and shift awkwardly under the attention, self-conscious, embarrassed, and proud all at once. Gladio looks proud too, giving Ignis a pat on the back the same way he does to Noctis when they’ve had a good round of training.
Noctis looks away, towards the windows, even though the light hurts his head and makes his eyes sting.
He’s not jealous of Ignis. He’s not.
He stares at the city beyond, at the bustling streets, some of them white with snow where the traffic can’t disturb it and the sun hasn’t been able to melt it away into nothing. He’s really not looking forward to going out there. It looks cold and he feels tired, but he has to meet Prompto later in the evening no matter how much he wants to go back to his rooms and sleep.
His chest is aching again. Deep inside, scratchy and burning and uncomfortable. He fights back a grimace and presses his hand to it, trying to rub away the ache.
“Noctis?” his father calls. “Are you all right?”
Noctis looks up at him and realises it’s not the first time his father has spoken to him. He nods, letting his hand drop from his chest, ignoring the way everyone seems to be staring.
“Tonight?” he says, for lack of anything else. He needs to get out of here. The light is too bright, everyone is too loud, he feels too raw on the inside.
“The gala is at nine,” his father reminds him, eyes crinkling at the edges when he smiles. “I will be there at eight or eight-thirty, to ensure everything is in order.”
“I’ll try to get there on time,” Noctis says. “I promised Prompto I’d go to the light show with him, but I can definitely get back here before the gala ends.”
His father hesitates, as if he wants to object, but then he nods. “I hope you have a good time, but please, Noct, take care of yourself.”
Noctis nods again, shifting awkwardly, feeling jittery. “I’ve gotta head out, I’ve got some stuff to take care of,” he says. He manages to muster an awkward smile for his father. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He gets out of there as calmly as he can, no matter how much he wants to give in and run. He manages to take in a deep breath, and it goes down into his lungs ice-cold. He wonders how much of it is to do with side effects of his own magic being hostile towards him.
*
He has around four hours to kill before meeting Prompto in the city.
So he manages to give both Gladio and Ignis the slip. They seem reluctant to leave him on his own, but he appeases them with a reminder that he does have a phone and he will use it if he needs help with anything. They’re both far too interested in discussing their newly acquired skills anyway, already theorising and coming up with plans for future training sessions.
He finds an empty training hall the Kingsglaive use, and he wastes no time before he pulls out his Engine Blade. It falls into his grasp easily, the way he’s practised a million times before, determined to get it down perfectly so it could never fail. Because maybe his elemancy is busted, but he can do this, he can summon weapons and warp and fight.
It does summon for him, but the shocks that spread up his wrist like tiny strikes of lightning take him by surprise. Something tugs in his chest.
He doesn’t hesitate. He throws his blade and warps straight across the hall, appearing on the other side with his sword buried in one of the training dummies. It’s a little dizzying, nauseating, and he’s sweating already, but it’s a comfort to know he can still do it. No struggle, no difficulty, no concentration. It’s second nature for him now.
He had learned warping a lot later than previous monarchs. It had been harder for him than his father, his grandfather, the glaives. But he had stuck to it, dedicated himself to it, and now he can do it. If he wants to throw his blade into the air, follow it upwards, feel himself lifted and propelled and shoved through the distance, then he can.
And so he does. He spins and braces himself, launching the sword straight up into the air. He follows after it, materialises up near the ceiling, and he quickly warps back to the floor.
He stumbles, but he lands on his feet.
His lungs burn in his chest, cold and heavy and tight, and he doubles over, coughing suddenly, his ears ringing. He’s toeing the edge of stasis like this, warping around to and fro, and he can feel the roughness of it in his veins, like static, like white noise, like crystalline grains getting clogged and jammed.
It shouldn’t bother him, the fact that Ignis can suddenly use elemancy. It’s pretty cool when he really thinks about it, and it makes perfect sense. Ignis isn’t just smart, he’s scary smart, usually the most intelligent guy in the room, and so of course he’s going to be able to wield magic in unique ways. And he’s always been ridiculously protective of Noctis, so of course he’s going to be able to wield whatever he has in his arsenal to accomplish what he’s set on doing.
It shouldn’t bother him, but it does. It’s his magic Ignis is channelling, and he can wield it easier and better than Noctis can. How is that fair?
How is anyone supposed to believe in his abilities when he’s like this? It had been hard enough for him to even give access to Gladio and Ignis. How is he supposed to forge and maintain his own glaive, how is he supposed to wield the Crystal’s power when he sits the throne?
“That boy is ill-prepared for the throne.”
A flash of anger hits him. Noctis straightens up and turns to the row of training dummies. He raises his hand and wills the fire to burst forth, to shoot out, to rise up, to do something.
But nothing happens.
He’s been able to do it before, but only a few times, when he’s been hopped up on adrenaline from really training with Gladio, when they’ve been going at it for a while and there are stakes involved and he’s trying to prove himself. And it’s only ever been chaotic, single explosions at a time, too big for him to handle, and far too dangerous to practise within the walls of the Citadel.
He thinks about the Crystal again. Breathing in its charged, icy air. About yesterday, the way he had tried to pull on it during the ritual, to open himself up further to it, and he tries that again now.
He warps to the left, to the right, throwing his sword harder each time, trying to build the adrenaline, let it climb, until his hands are shaking, so he can summon the magic and create fire, ice, thunder, anything.
He lands out of his warp, head throbbing, the room spinning, fingers trembling from the adrenaline rush, and he throws his hand out, aiming for the training dummies—
A shock of pain up his wrist, his arm, into his chest. Ice-cold, it’s in his lungs, his chest tight again, and he doubles over once more, coughs painfully ripping their way out of him, rough against his throat. He hears his sword clatter to the floor, and he’s on one knee suddenly, the ground rushing up far too fast to meet him, and he has to slap a hand onto the floor so he doesn’t smash his face. He pushes his other hand against his chest, willing it to stop hurting, to stop coughing, to let him breathe.
He doesn’t understand. Why does it feel so awful? He had only shared his magic with two people, so should he really feel like this?
His magic is his birthright; it shouldn’t make him ill.
His head is throbbing by the time he’s done coughing, and he’s so exhausted he’s not sure if he can even make it all the way back up to his rooms. He sits on the floor of the training room, listening to the silence of it all, the way everything is so still. Sunlight blazes in from the windows near the ceiling and it’s awful against his eyes, shimmering pastel blue for a second.
He feels dizzy. Light. Weightless. He’ll float away somewhere if he’s not careful.
Maybe he should text Gladio. Or Ignis. Have one of them come scrape him off the floor, help him get up to his rooms so he can shower, get changed, get everything ready for the gala tonight.
Gods. Noctis closes his eyes. There’s so much to do, but he’s so tired.
Maybe he should see his dad about this. Ask him if it’s normal to feel this way, or if there’s something, anything, that can be done to fix it. To make him feel better.
But he’s afraid that the answer is yes, he’s supposed to feel this bad, just suck it up, deal with it, everyone else had to.
And he’s afraid the answer will be no, why does he have to be so different and difficult, why can’t he be stronger like his predecessors.
Noctis sighs and forces himself to his feet. The adrenaline is long gone, along with his energy, replaced only with a cold sort of numbness.
*
“You don’t want a security detail?” Ignis repeats, surprise in his voice. “Gladio isn’t going to be too happy with that.”
Noctis lets out a huff and finishes lacing up his snow boots. The weather shouldn’t be too bad within the busy streets, but he can never be too careful. “Gladio will just have to make do,” he says. “I’ll only be gone for a few hours. He should get ready for tonight instead, that’s where the real security is involved.”
Ignis sighs, and he looks frustrated, eyes moving upwards for a brief second. “Noct, the light displays will be crowded areas. I know you aren’t obligated to have security with you in the city, but given how tired you are from yesterday—”
“I’m fine,” Noctis snaps, before he can help himself, then bites his lip to keep anything else from coming out. Sure, he doesn’t feel fine at all, bad after his impromptu session in the training hall, and even worse after forcing himself to shower, but the way everyone nags at him is just a painful reminder that he should do better, that he’s not up to standards, and he just can’t. He can’t face any of that right now.
Ignis presses on however, always undeterred in the face of any attitude Noctis can give him. “Even if it’s only Gladio or myself. We would feel a lot better if someone was with you.”
“I can take care of myself,” Noctis insists, heading towards the walk-in closet. He pulls out a few hoodies and heads back to throw them down onto the bed. “Besides, Prompto will be with me. And if I have someone following me around and basically escorting me then that’s going to draw attention. What’s your problem? You’re never usually this insistent.”
Ignis’s voice is a lot softer, smaller, when he says, “You don’t look well. And I feel somewhat responsible for that.”
Noctis sighs and drops the hoodie he’s holding back onto the bed. “You shouldn’t,” he mutters. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“We shouldn’t have pushed you into initiating both of us. Regardless of whatever the council may think, Gladio would have been enough for now. I could have waited.”
“It was my decision,” Noctis reminds him. “I asked if I could forge the bonds with both of you. I wanted to do it.” Because he had. Maybe not for all the right reasons, but it had still been his decision. It’s why he’s so hesitant to admit just how terrible he feels. He definitely shouldn’t have pushed himself that much, and now he’s reaping the consequences.
He can’t let Ignis shoulder the blame for that.
“I see,” Ignis says. He’s frowning suddenly. Thoughtful. “I assumed it was His Majesty’s decision. The council was rather pressing on the matter.”
Noctis tries very hard not to recall the looks he’d seen on those men’s faces. “Yeah,” he answers, clearing his throat, trying to keep his face neutral. “I heard there was a bad session. Two members got thrown out, right?”
“They won’t be missed,” Ignis says, and it’s almost calm, almost casual, except for the very level way he says it and the way his jaw works. Noctis would be able to dismiss it as a simple comment if he hadn’t seen what had happened and heard Lord Caius’s remarks for himself.
It’s not the first time members have stormed out or have been asked to leave during a meeting. The men and women on the council are human, and sometimes tempers run rampant. There have been big blowouts in the past over more pressing matters.
Noctis has to wonder how bad this one had been if both his father and Ignis have reacted this way, with carefully controlled tempers and just as cautious with their words. He almost wants to ask, except he doesn’t really want to know.
Ignis is silent for a painfully long time, watching on. Noctis pointedly doesn’t look at him, focusing on choosing which hoodie to wear. The navy blue one, maybe. It’s warmer, and he likes the pixelated art on the front.
Then Ignis says, “Are you upset with me?”
Noctis snaps his head up instantly. “What? No,” he replies, surprised, and already feeling kind of awful that he might have given that impression. “Of course I’m not.”
“You’ve barely even looked at me since I came in here,” Ignis answers, and having that pointed out makes Noctis break eye contact with him again in shame. “And you couldn’t wait to leave the hall earlier today. You looked upset.”
Noctis runs a hand through his damp hair, fighting back a grimace. He’s no good at this, especially when his head is pounding so much, when he feels the way that he does. He just doesn’t know how to explain it, how to get everyone to understand, without letting them see everything else beneath too. It’s so much easier to push them away than risk them not liking whatever they see.
But this is Ignis, who’s stood by him since they were kids. He helped him build pillow forts whenever there was a storm and Noctis was afraid of the thunder for a while because it sounded too much like explosions. He bakes him pastries because Noctis had loved one so much during a time filled with pain and trauma. He had seen Noctis at some of his lowest points during his school years and hadn’t judged him for any of it.
“Noct?” Ignis says. He sounds worried now.
Noctis looks up at him, hesitating, biting at his lip. “How’d you do it? Conjure the fire like that?”
Understanding falls over Ignis’s face. His shoulders seem to drop a little, sympathy in his eyes. Noctis hates it, and he hates that he sort of craves it too. “I’m afraid I don’t know, Noct,” Ignis says. “I can just concentrate and pull on it.”
Noctis nods, biting his lip again. He thinks he can taste blood. He gives Ignis a smile that feels painfully fake. “I can only ever do it in battle, and even then it’s just a sudden burst. Bang, and it’s over.” He looks down at his hoodie on the bed. “Some king I’ll be, huh?”
“Is that what’s upsetting you?” Ignis asks. “Noct, no one—”
“I have to get going,” Noctis cuts him off, and he grimaces at how thick his voice sounds. No doubt Ignis notices it too. He snatches up the hoodie and pulls it on. He doesn’t want the sympathy right now, he doesn’t want to be patronised, or anything like it. It just feels like they’re accepting he can’t be what they need him to be. “I’m gonna miss the train to Prompto’s.”
Ignis looks lost. “I thought you were meeting Prompto in the city.”
“I was, but change of plans. I’m going to his place first.” He pockets his phone and his wallet and pulls a beanie over his head. He deliberates for a second, then snatches up his gloves too. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back. I’ll be here in time for the gala.”
“Noct,” Ignis sighs. He follows Noctis out of his rooms and into the corridor, but he doesn’t say anything else.
“Can you get my suit ready for me?” Noct says. His heart is pounding in his chest from moving too quickly, he can hear the echo of it in his ears, and the edges of his vision are fuzzy and moving the way it gets when he’s about to warp, but he has to keep going. “It should still be hanging up in the garment bag from last time.”
Ignis is silent for a little too long, so long that Noctis looks up to see his worried frown. Then he says, “Yes, of course. Noct, are you sure you should be going out—”
“I promised Prompto,” Noctis reminds him. Ignis still looks lost, and Noctis hates that expression on him, hates how he’s the cause of it. He attempts a reassuring smile. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Ignis stares at him, then nods. “All right.”
He doesn’t rush down the hallways for the elevator. Not quite. It’s not like he can with the way things still seem like they’re swaying. He can’t even feel the floor beneath his boots and it’s a little disorienting.
But he does give Ignis the slip pretty fast. For the second time today. He feels guilty and awful for it, shame settles into his gut to swirl there with the cold and the heat and the jolts, but it’s either that or getting fussed over, and with the latter he might just end up saying something really humiliating. More than he’s already admitted.
When the elevator doors open, the lights in the ceiling are almost blindingly bright. He winces, taken by surprise, shielding his eyes as he steps inside, trying to navigate through the after images and the splotches in his vision. He tries to take a deep breath and hits the button for the ground floor, fighting back his nausea.
“Are you alright?”
Noctis startles. His back hits the wall of the elevator, so suddenly he thinks he phases through it for a second. He squints up at Cor, who is off to the other side, frowning down at him with something unhappy in his eyes.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he manages to get out. The lights are still awful, that harsh, fluorescent glare shining down on him. He wishes he’d put a cap on instead, to block it out, so it wouldn’t be so sharp against his head. But he forces himself to power through it. “I just—didn’t notice you were in here, that’s all.”
Cor doesn’t look impressed. “I’m standing right here. In plain sight.”
“Yeah, uh,” Noctis licks his lips and indicates upwards. “Lights are too bright. It was hard to see.”
Cor’s frown deepens. Apparently Noctis said the wrong thing. “You’re having trouble with lights?”
A weird question to ask. “My head hurts,” Noctis tries, shrugging. He looks at the display to see what floor they’re on and urges the elevator to go faster.
“Are you going somewhere, Your Highness?” Cor asks, eyeing him strangely, his gaze suddenly sharp and honing in on every detail. Noctis fights hard to remain steady and upright, to breathe in and out normally, to not squint against the lights. To appear normal.
“Just into the city for a few hours,” he answers. “There’s a whole light display and market stalls set up. Prompto’s been talking about it for months.”
“Ignis and Gladio aren’t going with you?” There’s something weird about the way Cor is looking at him, and the way his voice is carefully even. When Noctis shakes his head, he says, “Is that wise?”
He’s going to be sick, standing under these damn fluorescent lights. The top of his vision burns red and blue and seems to crawl and stretch and wave.
Noctis leans back against the wall and tries to breathe, though his chest feels tight again, and says, “It’s just for a few hours.”
He shouldn’t have breathed in too deeply, because now he's going to cough, he can feel the scratchiness of it, the urge bubbling up in his chest.
He looks at the floor display again. Almost there.
Cor says, “Perhaps it would be better for you to remain behind. Take some time to breathe before the gala tonight.”
He has to wonder if that’s a loaded question, if Cor has noticed the way his chest is giving him trouble. Thankfully, they reach the ground floor before he has time to press the matter further, and Noctis watches gratefully as the doors slowly open.
He sends Cor what he hopes is a teasing grin and says, “Unfortunately for you, I’ve got permission from the King himself. His opinion outranks yours. Later, Cor.”
He thinks he hears Cor mutter “smartass” in the elevator, and a laugh barks out of Noctis at the idea of it. And then he’s coughing into his elbow, wincing against the sharp spikes of pain in his chest, the heat that flares up his skin, and, gods, he hopes Cor didn't hear or see any of that. He hopes the elevator doors closed and left in time.
He glances over his shoulder to check, just in time to see Cor’s frowning face disappearing behind the closing doors.
Noctis groans. Great. That’s not going to end well.
Chapter Text
There’s something peaceful about Prompto’s house.
Noctis’s rooms in the Citadel can be very quiet, but he would still be within the Citadel, with many other people in the building working and coming and going. Crownsguard officers, Kingsglaive soldiers, various staff members, his own retinue, his father.
In his apartment, it can be incredibly quiet, but there would still be other residents, visitors, security guards patrolling the grounds, traffic on the streets nearby.
Prompto’s house is quiet and still. Two floors, no security guards, no staff members, no busy traffic nearby. His parents are out, but even when they’ve been home on some of Noctis’s visits it’s been nice to have so few people under one roof. It’s soothing.
He finds the quiet makes him sleepy. He can finally feel like he’s just standing still, even if Prompto rushes around the house like he’s impersonating a tornado, desperately trying to find a backup battery for his camera.
“I’m sorry!” Prompto calls out, from his bedroom this time. He sounds out of breath. “It was right here, I swear! The void ate it, man!”
Noctis grins a little to himself, standing halfway up the stairs. “Take your time,” he calls.
He doesn’t mind waiting for a moment. There’s still a lot to do today, and he isn’t even halfway through it all. The two of them will go to look at all the light displays and peruse the market stalls set up for the festivities, maybe check out their favourite video game stores to see if there are any new releases. Then he’ll get back to the Citadel, get ready for the gala, and then play happy, perfect prince for a few hours.
He lets out a sigh, exhaustion seeping deep into every bone. He takes a few more steps up, turns, then sits down on the top stair, leaning to the side so he can press his head to the wall.
He closes his eyes.
He drifts.
“Noct?”
There’s a hand on his shoulder. Noctis opens his eyes, blinks away the slight flare that streaks through his vision. He looks up at Prompto, who’s staring down at him with a sudden seriousness, no longer a frantic tornado.
“You’re really warm,” Prompto says, surprised. The backs of his fingers touch Noctis’s cheek, and Noctis flinches away at how cold they seem against his skin.
“I’m alright,” he murmurs. “Did you find your battery?”
“Yeah, I found it.” Prompto had been a flurry of movement before, but he’s incredibly still now. “Are you sick?”
“No.” For a brief, humiliating second, he thinks he’s going to cry, and he has no idea why. He’s just so sore and breathless and exhausted and dizzy, and he wants to curl up and sleep, and he wants to be okay again now. He wants to stop feeling this way. “I’m just tired.”
Prompto sits down beside him on the stairs, eyes serious. “Should we cancel?”
“No,” Noctis says again. “We’ve been planning this for months.” The light show only comes around once a year, when the nights are at their longest, and Prompto had been so excited to go ever since he got a new camera lens for his birthday. Especially when he discovered there would be a chocobo display this year.
Noctis fiddles with the edges of his sleeves. He feels like he should give Prompto an explanation, because he won’t nag, but he will worry if he doesn’t know what’s going on.
“I, um,” Noctis says, staring down at his fingers. “I just feel crappy, you know? I gave Gladio and Ignis access to my magic yesterday, and I’m just. Exhausted. It took a lot out of me.”
“Oh, wow,” Prompto looks genuinely impressed, his eyes lighting up. “So they can do magic and stuff now too?”
“Not exactly,” Noctis mumbles. “Well, Gladio can’t. They’re just supposed to be able to have access to the weapons and stuff. But Ignis—something went weird with his. He can use magic. Or summon fire, at least.”
“That’s badass,” Prompto says with a grin.
It is. No matter how hung up on his own abilities Noctis is, it had been a cool sight, the fire enveloping Ignis’s dagger, powerful, otherworldly, magical. And it would be even more badass if he could learn to do it with other elements too.
“Yeah,” Noctis says, just to fill the awkward, lingering silence, but he finds his voice is too weak and that’s even worse.
Prompto notices it too. “Or not,” he says, softer this time. He ducks his head to try and catch Noctis’s gaze. “What’s the matter?”
Noctis shakes his head. They should get going, they have a train to catch and stuff to do—but he can see the look in Prompto’s eyes and he knows he’s not going to let this go.
He looks back down at the sleeves of his hoodie, picking at the edge of one with his fingernails. “I told you about what happened when I was a kid, right? About how I got hurt?”
“Yeah,” Prompto murmurs. “The daemon attack. I remember.”
Noctis hesitates. Takes a small breath. “I haven’t been able to use my magic properly since then.” It’s hard to admit it out loud, even now, because, somehow, he almost expects Prompto to judge him for it. To have doubts about him too.
But, when he looks up, there’s nothing like that in his best friend’s eyes, and it spurs Noctis on. “It was hard for me to learn all this stuff. Slow. It took me a long time to be able to conjure weapons, and the warping was even worse. But the elemental stuff—I just can’t do it. No matter how hard I try.”
“Ah,” Prompto nods. He reaches out and pushes Noctis’s fingers away from his sleeve before he can start unravelling a loose thread. “That’s gotta sting, then. Ignis being able to do it just like that?”
Noctis nods reluctantly. “I’m not proud of it. But I just—I worked so hard on my magic. And I’m not good at it.”
Prompto’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “Dude. I’ve seen you guys train. You’re awesome at it.”
Yeah, of course Prompto would think that, but he’s a civilian, he’s not used to this kind of thing. He hasn’t seen the way the Kingsglaive works, he hasn’t seen his father’s closest, strongest Crownsguard officers train with one another. So anything would look great to him, wouldn’t it?
“Hey, stop that,” Prompto says, nudging Noctis with an elbow. The feeling sends a brief cold shock through his skin. “I can see you thinking, Noct. I mean it. I’ve seen you go up against Ignis and Gladio together, and it’s crazy!”
Noctis gives him a doubtful look.
Prompto glares back. “I’m serious. The way you warp everywhere and switch up your weapons and attack? It’s amazing to see. You’re fast, and you’re ridiculously athletic. You’re scary, man. You go full on badass when you’re fighting, they can’t even keep up with you. That’s not something to put down, especially when you worked so hard to get to that point.” He chews on his lip, thoughtful. “Can they warp too? Ignis and Gladio?”
“No,” Noctis says.
“So you can do something they can’t do either,” Prompto grins. “Feel sorry for Gladio, apparently he can’t warp or use magic. Sucks to be him, right?”
Noctis snorts, amused at that. He finds himself grinning a little.
Prompto nudges him again, a little more gently this time. “Hey, the way I see it? You guys all compliment each other. You bring different ways of fighting to the team. Gladio’s got the brute strength, Ignis has the magic spells or whatever, and you have the speed and the warping. Combine all three of you, and that’s a winning team right there.”
He has a point, he really does. But Noctis is still hung up on the heavy feeling of inadequacy. Because Ignis isn’t supposed to be making up for what he’s lacking, and he can certainly see the council members and the disdainful nobility seeing it that way. Maybe even the public, if they ever find out.
He sighs and rubs his sleeves over his face. He grabs his gloves out of his pocket and pulls them on. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to miss the train.”
Prompto opens his mouth, as if to protest, but whatever he sees in Noctis’s face seems to make him reconsider. “Okay, hold on a moment,” he says, and heads down the stairs, disappearing off into the kitchen.
Noctis waits, bracing himself, trying not to feel like he’s about to shatter into pieces with the way his head swims and the way the world blurs around him. He gets to his feet and carefully makes his way down the stairs.
When Prompto meets him by the front door again, he shoves a bottle and a small sealed bag of what looks like mini cookies into Noctis’s hands. “Here,” he says. “Get some electrolytes into you. And eat those. I know what you’re like when you’re sick. Bet you haven’t eaten anything all day.”
Noctis stares at the bottle, baffled, and at the cartoon smiling cookies on the bag staring back at him, before looking up at Prompto again. He gives a small grin. “Thanks.”
Prompto smiles back and nods. “No problem. We can get something else to eat while we’re out, too, if you’re up to it.”
The warmth in his chest has nothing to do with his weird side effects. Noctis looks down at the bottle awkwardly, then says, “So you think I’m scary?”
Prompto rolls his eyes and shoves him towards the door. “I think it’s scary how much of a dumbass you are. Get out of my house.” But he’s grinning as he says it, and his hands are gentle on Noctis’s back, and Noctis gives a small laugh in return.
And if Prompto walks closer than usual as they set off, if he watches Noctis a little more carefully, then they both choose to stay quiet about it.
*
As awful as he feels, he’s glad he made the trip. The air is cool against his cheeks and the snow is satisfying and reassuring to crunch under his boots, and seeing Prompto’s enthusiasm as they make their way through the displays and check out the market makes something in his chest feel lighter.
He’s getting better with his photography. He takes a few candid pictures of the two of them together, a few selfies here and there, but every now and then during the evening Noctis can see something in his head click, and then suddenly Prompto is all focus, finding the right angle, aiming his camera and getting some great shots of the lights.
He sees a few other people with cameras doing the same thing, aiming their lenses at the same displays, taking the same shots. Some of them have better, more professional equipment; others have little pocket cameras or just their phones.
He thinks about what Prompto said earlier on the stairs.
It does make sense. He and Gladio and Ignis all have different ways of fighting, different styles, different weapon preferences, but in a battle they would all accomplish the same thing in the end. Just with different approaches to it.
And he’s never really begrudged Gladio of his physical strength, the way he could easily overpower Noctis if he managed to get close enough in a fight. His strength is something Noctis can never hope to achieve, and he knows it’s futile to even try, he’s not built for it and never has been. So is Ignis really any different with his apparent affinity for magic?
He really hasn’t been fair to Ignis today.
His phone vibrates in his pocket at one point, with a text message from his dad: Doing well? Enjoying the festivities?
The glare of the screen hurts his head, afterimages burned into his eyes when he blinks against it. Noctis doesn’t know how to answer without it sounding too dismissive, and the idea of typing out long messages makes his head swim. So he pockets his phone without replying, feeling guilty.
Walking around too much makes him feel nauseous and dizzy, the edges of his vision blurred and warped, the sensation of air beneath him instead of solid ground. His skin feels too tight and hot, his head throbs and pulses in time with his heartbeat and he’s openly coughing into his elbow. Some of the lights hurt his eyes, pulsing and flickering in his vision.
But it’s worth it when they get to the chocobo display, to see the way Prompto’s face lights up with so much enthusiasm. “Oh em gee, check it out, Noct,” he says excitedly, and then he’s suddenly snapping as many pictures as he can while Noctis watches on.
A few of the displays are simple things, made up of small groups of lights to create cute and cartoony shapes of chocobos, like constellations brought down to the earth for them to gaze at.
Others are larger, towering over them and fading into different colours. There’s one giant display that stands on its own, slowly fading from a deep blue to purple to red and more.
Prompto’s favourite is clearly the animated one, an entire 3D life-sized model made up of dozens of lights on a frame that can move its head and flap its wings.
“It’s so cool,” Prompto grins as he crouches beside Noctis to get another shot. Noctis glances down and catches the happy glance Prompto gives him, his face lit up in the golden glow, lights reflecting in his eyes.
“Yeah,” Noctis says. He deliberates for a second, and then takes out his phone again, holding it up to get a picture of the moving chocobo surrounded by the other displays.
He sends the picture to his dad, adding It’s good, back soon to the message.
And then he’s coughing into his elbow again, and they feel rough against his throat and in his chest. His lungs hurt again, worse than before. It’s harder to take in a breath. He glances around them even though the movement makes his head swim. Luckily there aren’t many people around to take notice. The perks of arriving a little later than the crowds, he guesses.
“Okay,” Prompto says, suddenly in front of him. His hand grasps at Noctis’s elbow. “I think it’s time to go.”
“We haven't seen everything yet,” Noctis manages to get out.
Prompto shakes his head. “I don’t care. You’re sick. You need to go home, Noct.”
“Can’t,” Noctis says. “There’s a gala at the Citadel tonight. Gotta go there instead.”
Prompto’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “You can’t go like this.” He pauses, biting at his lip as he eyes Noctis. He holds his hand out. “Give me your phone. I’m calling Ignis.”
“No way.” Noctis pushes past him and heads for the path leading away from the chocobo display. He feels too hot and dizzy, and tiny shocks keep spasming up his arms and into his chest. The lights are too bright, they seem to grow bigger and bigger with every step he takes, crowding up in his vision.
“Noct,” Prompto says, close behind him, following along. “You can’t make it back on your own like this. You need Ignis or Gladio to come and get you in a car.”
Noctis shakes his head and stumbles a little from the way it makes him dizzy. “You’re not calling them.”
“Noct.”
He can’t have either of them coming along. He can’t face the disappointment and the anger and the lectures like you should know better than this and don’t be so stupid. Because they had both seen him today, Gladio had to help get him off the bathroom floor and Ignis had said he didn’t look good.
Noctis hasn’t been honest with them, hasn’t told them just how badly this whole thing has affected him. He should have been, right from the start, he knows that, but he hasn’t. And now he’s feeling this bad, and who else is there to blame but himself?
And he can’t risk everyone realising just how affected he is by using magic, by forging his bonds. More doubts, how can he give more people access, how can he form a glaive. How can he harness the Crystal’s magic and bear the weight of the Wall if magic makes him this bad?
“That boy is ill-prepared for the throne.”
A group of kids rush past him, laughing as they go, holding up tiny, lit up sticks from one of the stalls. The lights sear through Noctis’s eyes, leaving trails in their wake, painful and disorienting and cutting straight through his vision.
Noctis freezes in his tracks, slapping a hand over his eyes, gasping, and that just makes his chest seize up, too tight, too constricted, unable to pull in air properly, and he’s coughing again, a pain deep, deep in his chest and down his arms and in his head.
There are too many lights. When he opens his eyes again, they’re all too bright, they’re everywhere, like a hundred suns, they bleed through his vision and block everything out until he feels like he’s blinded from it. He can hardly see the displays or the buildings or the people for all the colours, white and cyan and lilac strobing through his vision.
He can’t feel the ground beneath his feet and he can’t see the world around him. He doesn’t know where he is, he’s completely disoriented, lost.
He thinks he hears Prompto calling out for him, somewhere behind him, where it’s not blindingly bright, but Noctis is already stumbling away, his heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing in his ears.
He shields his eyes and runs.
The world sways dangerously and he still can’t feel the ground beneath him, but he keeps going, pushing past people as best as he can, only aware of the pulsing in his head and his chest. He has no idea where he’s going and he feels like he’s about to drop at any moment, but he has to get away from the lights and the noise.
He takes a quiet street, a back alley, ducks past buildings, until the crowds have disappeared, until there are more shadows than lights, and he makes his way to the safety of the dark, until his feet crunches through thick snow instead of pounding on the concrete. It’s better here, but he still feels dizzy, treading through water, his lungs burning ice-cold in his chest.
He keeps going, until more coughs bark out of him and pull him to a halt. There’s a huge shape in front of him, looming, towering. A wall, he realises, blocking the rest of the way.
There are tall iron gates off to the side, chained and padlocked.
He could keep going, keep running, just let his feet take him along the streets until he finds a safe enough place to stop. But it looks dark beyond those gates, darker than everything else, and that seems far better than the risk of running into more streetlights or festival lights or anything else that could hurt his eyes and make him dizzy.
His arms ache like hell with a weakness that drills deep into him, and he feels like he’s about to drop, but he scales the iron gates to leap over the top, to get to the other side.
Before he can jump, the top of the gate brushes against his ankle and a cold spark shoots straight through him, from his feet to his head, and he flinches at the feeling of it—
He’s moving, he’s falling, his body phasing for just a second, the world tipping sideways. He only has a moment to brace himself, then he lands in the snow on the other side of the gate.
He has to take a second to catch his breath back, still feeling the magic tingling over his skin. It feels like he’s made of sand. Or crystals. He still can’t quite feel the ground beneath him. He forces himself back to his feet anyway, to keep going.
It’s blissfully dark here, even with the white snow underneath him. He can see now, he can make out trees, distant buildings, the layout of the empty park he’s suddenly found himself in. A huge shape in front of him. A fountain, still and silent, sturdy and enveloped in shadows.
He’s so hot, his skin feels like it’s on fire. He drops to his knees in the snow beside the fountain and takes off his gloves, rips the beanie from his head, and drops them all to the ground.
His heart is pounding so hard, so fast, it’s nearly sickening. It hurts. He presses his hand to his chest, coughing again, doubling over, his face nearly hitting the snow. He can hardly pull in air, not with the way it feels like his lungs are heavy and blocked, they’ve become completely solid on the inside, frozen and jagged things.
He’s still too hot. He reaches down for the bottom of his hoodie, ready to rip that off too—
“Don’t you dare,” a voice says beside him, hands grabbing for him, “Leave that on.”
Noctis startles and cries out, flailing, trying to get away. He catches sight of a familiar face before he’s doubling over again from another coughing fit.
“Easy, Your Highness,” Cor says. “Take it easy. I’ve got you.” He’s crouched down next to him in the snow, and his hands are huge and firm on Noctis’s shoulders, steadying him, holding him upright. He’s probably the only reason Noctis hasn’t face planted into the snow by now.
Noctis clutches at his throat, and then at his chest, trying to breathe through the spasms. “What’s wrong with me?” he croaks out.
“You have Crystal sickness. That’s what we call it, anyway.”
“The hell is that?” Noctis has never heard the term in his entire life, but Cor sounds so confident about it. Before he can ask anything else, he’s coughing again, and each one saps a little more energy, has the ache building a little more.
Gods, he hates this. He’s so exhausted. He wants to not feel exhausted anymore.
Cor holds onto him with his arm wrapped around his back, and his left hand moves to press against Noctis’s sternum. To help prop him up, to help with the coughs, he has no idea, but he’s grateful for it, feeling too heavy to do it himself.
“I’ve seen it with guards a handful of times over the years,” Cor says softly. “Spending too long in the Crystal’s vicinity can make them sick. Like radiation poisoning. It’s why the inspections have to be done within a certain time limit.”
Noctis blinks, staring down at the snow beneath him. He thinks about that cool, charged air he had been breathing in outside the vault, the shimmering opal mist crawling around his feet.
Cor continues. “And for those of royal blood, pushing too hard with magic, using too much of it at once and in ways you’re not used to, that can also affect you. Unfortunately, you’ve done both. You were exposed to the Crystal and you pushed yourself with your magic. Your body didn’t agree with it, so now you’re sick. Think of it like a magical pneumonia.”
Suddenly the shocks shooting through his arms, the ice-cold feeling in his lungs, the way his skin feels like it’s on fire, it all makes sense now. The way he feels dizzy and floaty and fuzzy, he feels grainy, like he might warp out of existence at any moment.
Noctis groans. “Can’t do anything right, can I?” It slips out before he can stop it, but his head hurts so much, everything hurts so much, and Cor has already caught him collapsed in the snow in some dark, deserted park, so he sort of doesn’t care anymore.
“That’s not true,” Cor replies. “It’s not your fault you got sick. It couldn’t be helped.”
“Wouldn’t have gotten sick if I was better at magic.”
“Not necessarily.” Cor’s voice is surprisingly warm and soft beside his head. It sends him right back to his childhood, to the times he’d give into Noctis’s endless prodding to entertain him for a while with games or stories.
He continues, “This isn’t limited to you alone. Your father fell sick like this after he first formed the Kingsglaive.”
Noctis hadn’t known that. He turns his head to look up at Cor. “Really?”
Cor nods. “He was stubborn about it and insisted he was fine. You get that from him, you know.” There’s something almost affectionate and amused in his gaze. “It took around two days for him to give in. Clarus had to force him into getting some rest after he nearly collapsed in a meeting. We even talked about barricading him in his rooms at one point.”
His father’s health might be deteriorating more and more as the years go by, but he’s always been an image of strength to Noctis. No matter how much the Wall takes a toll on him, he keeps going, he forces himself to carry on, holds his shoulders straight and his head up high. So the idea of him being like this, to the point of collapse, sick from too much use of his magic, takes Noctis by surprise.
A new ache spreads through his chest and his shoulders sag. “I just wanted to do better,” he murmurs. “What Lord Caius said—”
“Lord Caius is arrogant and naive,” Cor cuts him off, a little sternly. “He was speaking on subjects he knows nothing about. Don’t listen to him.”
“But the council—”
“Noctis,” Cor sighs, and maybe it’s just Noctis’s imagination that the hand on his shoulder squeezes a little. “Even your father has made decisions and taken actions that his council disapproved of. He has made them unhappy many times before. They are there to offer opinions and advice and service, but, in the end, all that matters is how you decide to rule. Not the judgement of the council.”
Is it really that simple? It certainly doesn’t feel that way.
“You can’t push yourself past your limits just to keep everyone happy,” Cor says. “You’ll burn yourself out that way. Do what you can with the skills that you have, and forge your own path. And when things get a little too much, it's okay to stop and take a moment to catch your breath.”
“A king doesn’t have that luxury,” Noctis murmurs. A king can’t simply stop and think of himself.
Cor chuckles at that. “What do you think me and Clarus are for? What are Ignis and Gladio for? I’m sure they’ll have no qualms with barricading you in a room for your own good if it ever came to it.”
Noctis finds he can muster up a small smile at that, seeing Cor return it. And then he’s coughing again, Cor’s hand on his chest pressing in to keep him from falling.
Noctis groans and closes his eyes. “I feel like crap.”
Cor snorts. “I’ll bet you do. Let’s get you out of here. Sitting in this snow isn’t doing you any favours. I don’t want to risk hypothermia on top of everything else.”
“The gala—”
Cor shakes his head. “Forget about the gala, kid.”
Noctis opens his mouth to protest, but he’s coughing again, he’s always coughing now, he can’t even breathe, the ice has crept into every part of his body with the fire and the jolts, and he groans again at the ache in his chest.
“Noct!” someone yells, but it’s not Cor next to him. It’s somewhere behind him, footsteps getting closer, and Noctis remembers Prompto. He’d ran away from his best friend, blinded by all the lights at the show, and now Prompto is here somehow, he caught up with him, and—
“Hey!” Prompto yells, suddenly up close, holding onto his camera by the neck strap and swinging it down through the air. “Get away from him, you creep!”
Cor’s left hand disappears from Noctis’s chest, shooting up to grab the camera before it can hit him, lightning fast, unfazed in the slightest. “You must be Prompto,” he says calmly, like he hasn’t seen Prompto’s school ID before during background checks, like he wasn’t just about to get a camera lens straight to the face.
Prompto’s eyes are wide, his mouth open, about to panic. Noctis swallows and shakes his head at him. “It’s okay, Prompto,” he croaks out. “It’s just Cor. He’s Crownsguard.”
Prompto’s eyes widen even further. Definitely about to panic now. “Oh. Oh, no.” He winces and looks like he wants to take his camera back but doesn’t dare. Cor holds it out for him instead, and Prompto takes it hesitantly, like he thinks he’ll get bitten any moment. “I, uh—I’m sorry, sir. I—man, I thought you were some kidnapper or an assassin or something! I didn’t know he had security with him.”
“Yeah,” Noctis says, looking up at Cor, “what are you doing out here? Where’d you even come from?”
“I’ve been tailing you for hours, Your Highness,” Cor says, again in that calm tone. Completely unbothered.
Noctis stares up at him. “What?”
Cor’s eyebrow quirks. “Don’t worry. I got permission from the King himself to do so.”
Noctis groans and doubles over, and it’s only Cor’s hand back on his chest that keeps him from really tipping over this time. He lets out a few coughs, then says, “You suck, Cor.”
“And you’re sick,” Cor shoots back. “So let’s get you back to the Citadel.”
“Yes, let’s.” Prompto insists. “You really don’t look good, Noct.”
Noctis shakes his head. “Don’t think I can walk anymore. Too dizzy. The lights.”
Cor only contemplates that for a second. “I’ll call Gladio. He can drive us.” He shakes his head when Noctis opens his mouth to object. “This isn’t up for debate, Noctis. I’m calling your Shield. Prompto, keep a hold on him.”
“Uh, yes sir.” Prompto jumps into action, crouching down beside Noctis when Cor gets up. He looks forlorn when he wraps an arm around his shoulders, ducking his head to catch Noctis’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Noct. We shouldn’t have come out here.”
“I wanted to,” Noctis says. He swallows thickly. “I’m sorry I ditched you. I got all messed up from the lights. I didn’t know where I was.”
“No doubt.” Prompto’s fingers touch his forehead, his face scrunching up in worry. “Man, you’re really hot.”
“Thanks,” Noctis mumbles. Prompto huffs out a disbelieving laugh at that. Noctis stares up at him. “You were gonna break your camera. Swinging it at Cor like that. It would’ve broken.”
“Yeah,” Prompto looks a little sheepish at that, but unapologetic. “But cameras can be replaced.”
He catches the meaningful look Prompto gives him and sags against him. Prompto squeezes his shoulder and mumbles, “Let’s get you home, yeah?”
“Gladio and Ignis on their way,” Cor says as he steps closer again. He eyes Noctis solemnly, then, to Prompt, he says, “Let’s get him up off the snow.”
“Come on, Noct,” Prompto says.
He doesn’t feel like his legs can work anymore, but he finds he doesn’t really need to put the effort in anyway. Not with Prompto helping to support him, and not with Cor being as strong as he is. They get him upright and sit him on the edge of the stone fountain. Prompto sits with him, to help support him, his arm still wrapped around his shoulders.
He doesn’t have the energy to fight against them. Physically or emotionally. Even with the dread building in his gut. His head pounds so badly, it takes all the willpower he can muster not to do something really embarrassing, like bury his face in Prompto’s jacket and cry about it. And he’s ridiculously grateful for the way Cor and Prompto talk to him in low murmurs, the way they hold onto him to keep him from falling.
It feels like an eternity before Gladio and Ignis show up. It feels like a blink of an eye. Waiting for them one moment, and then the next they’re dashing up to him and staring down with worried faces.
The guilt and despair in Ignis’s eyes is so vivid, Noctis hates himself for it.
“I’m sorry,” he tells them. “I should’ve said something, I know, I—”
“Gods, kid,” Gladio breathes out. “You look like death.”
Ignis steps forward, hands reaching for him. “Noct, what—”
“We need to get him back to the Citadel now,” Cor says, face grim, voice hard. Suddenly their commanding officer, and Noctis sees the way they immediately stand to attention.
They crowd round him, worried, swimming faces hovering over him, and Noctis can’t focus on what they’re saying anymore. He’s too exhausted, too dizzy, there’s too much pain in his chest, in his lungs, in his heart. Blood and bones made of ice and fire and thunder, about to crack and shatter into crystals any second.
“Noct?” someone says. He doesn’t know who.
“Let’s get him to the car,” someone else says.
He startles when something moves in front of him, but it’s just Gladio and Ignis again, coming to help him stand up.
“Easy, Noct,” Gladio says. “I’m gonna help you stand, okay? I knew I should’ve taken you to a doctor.”
“Sorry,” Noctis mumbles.
Ignis is on his left side suddenly. “None of that,” he murmurs. “On three. One, two, three.”
Ignis and Prompto help him to his feet, Gladio in front of him with his hands held out, ready to help and steady him, and it’s too much suddenly, there are too many sounds, too many hands, they’re all up in his space, and Noctis flinches and cringes back, and the cold shock runs through him again, and he’s moving, phasing away from them, slipping out of their grasp, to fall backwards towards the fountain again.
“Whoa, whoa!” Prompto cries, hands reaching for him again.
Ignis beats him to it. He grabs Noctis before he can fully fall into the fountain. He helps him to sit back down on the edge of it, a single hand pressed to his shoulder to steady him.
His heart is pounding. Noctis takes in a few breaths, trying to reorient himself. “Sorry,” he says again. He feels Ignis’s hand squeeze his shoulder.
“We’re overcrowding him,” Cor says. “His magic is too sensitive right now.”
“But he needs help walking,” Prompto points out. “Or navigating, at least, if the lights are messing him up.”
Gladio seems to consider that only for a second. “All right then,” he says, looking down at Noctis. “On my back. I’ll carry you to the car.”
Noctis wants to say no. He doesn’t want to be carried. But he also doesn’t want everyone crowding round him.
He doesn’t want to be sick anymore. He just wants to sleep.
“Okay,” Noctis says.
The walk back to the car is a fuzzy blur. Crunching snow and murmuring voices and distant piercing lights. He drifts for a while, lets it all meld into sounds and colours coming and going.
And then suddenly they’re in the car and they’re moving. Gladio in the driver’s seat, knuckles white around the steering wheel, Cor beside him telling him to keep his cool. Noctis bundled in the backseat with Ignis periodically checking on his temperature and heart rate, Prompto shielding his eyes from any lights that flash by the window.
“What about the gala?” he mumbles. He’s supposed to be there. He’d told his dad he’d be there in time.
Ignis shakes his head, concern in his eyes. “Don’t worry about the gala, Noct. Let us focus on getting you better, instead.”
Noctis wants to apologise again. He shouldn’t have let it get this far. He should have told someone, been more honest, communicated with his team. He should have done something to stop himself from getting so sick.
“This isn’t your fault,” Ignis says, like he can read his mind. His hand moves to Noctis’s forehead, checking his temperature for the hundredth time, and he winces for the hundredth time at whatever he feels.
Noctis stares up at him. “Not yours, either.” The world is fading out, but he needs Ignis to know that.
Ignis gives him a weak smile. “That transparent, am I?”
“Mmhmm,” Noctis mumbles. “See-through. Crystal clear.”
“Noct?”
He’s only aware of how distant the voices are getting, the rumbling of the car beneath him, and the way his heart pounds in his chest. Prompto’s hands still near his eyes, still protecting him from the lights. His face is worried when Noctis catches a glimpse of it.
He drifts for a while and his vision goes dark.
*
Sounds come and go, pulsing in and out like he’s mid-warp and about to break through at any moment. The world swims in a blur of colours, flashing lights piercing through his brain like knives, voices muffled and far away like he’s underwater.
When he’s next aware of his surroundings again, when he’s really aware of it and can hold onto it and take it all in, he’s sitting on the edge of a bed in the infirmary, holding an oxygen mask to his own mouth even though his arm aches.
There are hands on his shoulders again. Someone standing in front of him, talking over his head. Black and gold swimming in his vision.
Noctis looks up, sees his father’s worried face, looking over at someone else. He’s in one of his fine suits and his cloak. Dressed nicely. Kingly. For the gala.
“No,” Noctis moans. His chest constricts and he coughs into the mask.
His father looks down at him instantly. His hands squeeze at Noctis’s shoulders. “Hello there.”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Noctis tells him.
“On the contrary,” his father smiles, worried, but warm and fond, “I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”
“The gala—”
His father shakes his head before he can even finish. “The gala is unimportant, Noct. Helping you recover is what matters most.”
“You can’t,” Noctis gets out before another coughing fit takes hold. He can’t be here, he has to attend the gala. He has to be there for all the guests. He has to make a speech. For the nobility, for his Crownsguard, for the council.
He can’t see Noctis like this.
His father merely pulls him close, so that Noctis can rest his head against his chest, his face bent to Noctis’s hair. His father says, “I’m sorry I did not realise how affected you were by this. I should have noticed the signs.”
Noctis merely closes his eyes and breathes into the mask, grateful for the air it gives. He pushes his father away so often, tries to brush off any concerns so he can’t be seen showing any signs of weakness, so he can be his father’s son, he’d forgotten how nice it feels to just be close again. Safe. No kingdom, no throne, just his father, waiting for him with open arms, a warm smile and reassurances.
“I can feel your heart beating,” his father murmurs. He’s holding Noctis so close and his heart is pounding, so he’s not surprised. His face moves away from Noctis’s hair suddenly. “What is your advice then?”
Another voice speaks up from somewhere behind Noctis. “I’m concerned about his cough and his fever. I would like to see how he does with oxygen therapy and bed rest for now. We can provide painkillers and intravenous fluids right here, that should help him feel more comfortable.” There’s a slight pause. “Normally, antibiotics would be prescribed for an illness with these symptoms, but I’ve read over the reports of previous cases and they say such medicine is ineffective.”
“Yes,” his father says. “It is not viral or bacterial in nature.”
“Then we’ll have to see how he does with the treatment we’ve outlined. If his condition worsens any further, however, then he may need to be admitted to a hospital instead. There is only so much we can do here.”
His father seems to consider that. “Very well. Please, do all that you can for him.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” A figure moves in Noctis’s peripheral vision. A Citadel doctor, quickly leaving the room, notes in his hand and his stride brisk.
They’re talking about hospitalising him if he gets worse. He needs oxygen and an IV and rest. He feels so stupid. He shouldn’t have let it get this far, he should have said something sooner.
Noctis looks up at his father again, guilt shooting through him. “I didn’t think being near the Crystal would make me sick,” he says, voice muffled from the mask. The edges dig into his nose and his cheeks and it’s uncomfortable, so he lowers it to his lap, trying his best to breathe steadily on his own.
His father frowns down at the mask, disapproving. “And that would normally be the case,” he replies. “It is not a common occurrence for people to come down with this sickness. Those who did were only affected from extreme exposure, or due to complications.”
Noctis doesn’t want to ask, dread in his gut. “And me?”
“Cor informed me you were with him when the vault was open.” His father reaches down for the mask and returns it to Noctis’s face. “Its power was in the air and you were touched by it. It would not have affected you any other time, but you used your magic yesterday. Strong magic you are unused to wielding, and you pushed yourself hard with it. The combination of the two was unfortunate. The traces of the Crystal’s energy in your body, however minor, would have been aggravated by the magic you used then.”
Noctis lowers his eyes. So if he had delayed the ritual yet again, if he had put it off for a little longer the way he’d been doing for months, then he wouldn’t have gotten sick. If he hadn’t visited the vault in the first place, he wouldn’t be sick now. He would have just had the same experiences as his father years ago instead.
He remembers the training hall, forever ago now, and his desperate attempt to conjure magic. “And from today,” he says.
His father tilts his head. “Pardon?”
“After—” Noctis coughs a little, and he’s grateful for the mask suddenly, tightening his fingers around it. He takes a few breaths, then pulls it away to speak, eyes on the gold coins decorating his father’s cloak. “After the hall. When Ignis showed us what he can do. I got—I was—I went to a training hall to practise my own magic.”
Realisation begins to creep onto his father’s face.
“I did a lot of warping,” Noctis admits. “I was trying to conjure elements.”
His father’s face falls. “Noct.”
“Probably made myself worse, huh,” Noctis says, lowering his gaze to his lap.
“That is a possibility,” his father answers. Noctis appreciates the honesty, and there’s no judgement whatsoever in his father’s voice. His hands rest on Noctis’s shoulders again. “Noct. You do not need to push yourself to the point of illness simply to try and prove your worth to us. I know you struggle with magic, and I know how that must hurt, but it does not mean you are lacking.”
Noctis doesn’t know what to say to that. A thank you? That his father is wrong? That he doesn’t want to have this conversation, he doesn’t want his father to dig deep down and see everything?
He’s so tired, his chest aches, and he doesn’t want to think about the crushing weight of his responsibilities looming over him. But— “I just want to use magic,” he says. “I’m supposed to be able to do it by now. You could do it when you were my age—”
“You are not me,” his father replies. “You are not Ignis. We are not you. You are so busy comparing yourself to others, you fail to see your own talents.” He squeezes at Noctis’s shoulders until he looks back up at his father, to his warm eyes and fond smile. “I have seen your progress in combat. Your dedication to warping. Your proficiency with weapons. In all honesty, you are the most promising swordsman this family has had in generations.”
Noctis seriously doubts that. “Yeah, sure.”
“I mean it,” his father insists. “Clarus and Cor have expressed similar opinions to me. And I know you worked very hard to reach that point, Noct.”
He had worked hard to get it all down. The warp-strike itself is one of their family’s significant and dangerous moves for a battle. It had taken him so long to nail it, to be able to do it like it’s second nature, and once he’d had success with it he had spent hours and hours in training to turn it into something as easy as breathing.
The same with his warping, with switching weapons, phasing. And every time he did it in a sparring match, he could see the way Gladio’s eyes would light up with pride and excitement. The way Ignis would nod his head, impressed, and would stop to recalculate. Noctis could make it so that Ignis, of all people, would have to reconsider his approach with how to take him in a fight.
“You are young,” his father says. “You still have much to learn. As do we all. But, Noct, you do yourself a disservice by putting your skills down in favour of focusing on what others can do that you cannot. It is unfair comparing yourself to others. Unfair to them, and to you.”
Noctis lets out a breath and closes his eyes. “Yeah. I’ve been pretty awful to Ignis.”
“I doubt he would agree with that,” his father says. “He has been very worried for you since they brought you in here.” There was an unspoken ‘We all have’ in the silence following that, and Noctis leans forward to press his forehead to his father’s chest.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he mumbles.
“I know,” his father says, voice warm and gentle and soothing. “We should have seen the signs ourselves.”
Noctis shakes his head. “Not your fault. You didn’t know.”
“Then it is not yours, either.”
Noctis almost laughs at that. Hadn’t he and Ignis said the same thing during the car ride here?
He blinks against his father’s shirt, pulling away to look up at him. “Will Ignis be okay? Is this why he can conjure?”
His father shakes his head. “You forged your bond with him through your magic alone. Nothing else. He simply possesses a natural affinity for magic, that is the reason he can wield it in the way he demonstrated. You need not worry. He is unaffected by your illness.”
That’s a relief. He doesn’t know what he would have done if Ignis had turned out to be sick too. Or even Gladio, for that matter.
Noctis contemplates only for a second. “Can I see him?” he murmurs. “Can he come in here?”
His father’s hands squeeze his shoulders again and his lips touch Noctis’s hair. “I will go and get him.”
*
Ignis comes in as the nurse is setting Noctis up with his IV fluids. He barely even feels the needle going into his arm, too exhausted, clinging to the oxygen mask, watching the slow way Ignis steps into the room. He looks as worn out as Noctis feels, hair dishevelled like he’s ran his hand through it one too many times, his eyes fixated on the needle in Noctis’s arm.
“How are you feeling?” Ignis asks eventually.
Noctis manages a small smile. “Awful.”
“I can imagine.” Ignis’s eyes remain on the nurse until she politely excuses herself from the room, and then it’s just the two of them, and he can barely look at Noctis, it seems, guilt weighing heavy on his shoulders.
Ignis sighs, stepping closer. “Noct—”
“Not your fault,” Noctis croaks out before another coughing fit takes him, doubling over. Ignis’s hands are on his shoulders immediately, supporting him, his worried face swimming in Noctis’s vision. Noctis waits until he can breathe properly again to say, “Seriously. This isn’t your fault. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”
“I wouldn’t say it was your fault either,” Ignis says. His hands pull away from Noctis when he’s holding himself upright and steady again. “We didn’t know the Crystal could be so hazardous under the right circumstances.”
Noctis nods. “How’ve you been? With the whole thing. I never asked.”
Ignis pauses, like he’s unsure if he should answer, which is so unlike him and so odd to see, but then he says, “Tired and rejuvenated at the same time. I think, perhaps, the physical and emotional transference combined left me feeling a little overstrung.” He indicates to the open doorway with a hand, exasperation in his eyes. “Gladio has been far too excitable about the entire thing if you ask me.”
Noctis can’t help a small, amused smile at that, at the suffering look on his face, but it soon dies on his lips.
He hesitates for a second, then reaches out, to hold onto Ignis’s wrist with his free hand, the way he had done yesterday when giving him his magic. They’re not usually big on physical affection between the two of them, not since they were kids, and definitely not the way Gladio and Prompto like to be up close and personal, but holding onto him now feels oddly comforting.
“I just—” Noctis clears his throat, then winces. Mistake. “I wanted to say sorry. I am. I got jealous and I treated you badly because of it. I’m sorry for that.” He looks up, feeling an odd mixture of exasperation and relief that Ignis already looks like he’s long forgiven him, with understanding in his eyes and a fond, if somewhat sad, smile on his lips. He shouldn’t be so quick to forgive, but this is Ignis. He’s always so lenient with Noctis.
Noctis swallows. “It really is awesome. That you can do that with the magic.”
“Thank you, Noct,” Ignis murmurs.
“Maybe you can teach me sometime.” Noctis shrugs awkwardly. “If it’s possible.”
“I would like that,” Ignis offers him another smile. “I’m sorry I caused you such turmoil over the matter. I never meant to reopen or aggravate any old wounds.”
Noctis almost rolls his eyes at that. “You can’t apologise for my feelings, Ignis. That’s not how it works.”
Ignis huffs out a breath, amused. “I suppose you’re right. Still.”
Noctis shakes his head. “Nah, it’s all me. I just—” he flicks his gaze away, awkward, and he knows Ignis understands already, but he needs to say it anyway. “I wanna be a good king, you know?”
“You will be,” Ignis replies, and there’s so much conviction in his voice and in his eyes that Noctis doesn’t know what to say for a moment.
He squeezes Ignis’s wrist gently and lets go. “I’m lucky to have strong allies,” he says. He tries for his father’s voice, the strength and the commanding tones, but it still shakes a little and it doesn’t have the same effect when he’s holding onto an oxygen mask.
“Maybe I’ll never be able to use magic the way you can,” he says slowly, “But I can trust you to use it for me in my stead if that time ever comes. Right?”
Ignis’s smile is a soft thing on his face, his voice even softer when he says, “You don’t even have to ask, Noct.”
*
Later, when the pain medication leaves him feeling pleasantly warm and like he’s floating a little, Gladio says, “I wish you’d told us, kid.”
Noctis gives him a weak smile, turning to look at him sitting in one of the chairs to the right of the bed. Prompto is on the other side, arms folded up on the blanket so he can rest his chin on them and watch Noctis. Ignis sits further behind Prompto, taking careful notes on Noctis’s treatment plan, no doubt already coming up with a very specific, detailed schedule for him to help with his recovery.
Cor is a sentry guarding his room just outside the door and his father and Clarus are talking in low murmurs in the hallway. His father looks Noctis’s way for a moment, smiling warmly when he sees Noctis watching.
“Next time say something, okay?” Gladio says. The back of his hand gently knocks against Noctis’s shoulder, and when Noctis turns back to look at him, Gladio is smiling too. “Okay?”
Noctis nods. “Yeah, okay.”
*
It takes a few weeks before they can gather in the training hall together again. Sunlight blazes its way through the windows, catching the way the air shimmers with crystal fragments when Ignis and Gladio summon weapons into their hands. It’s becoming easier for them now, magic responding to them much faster, almost a second nature.
They stand together, as a team, ready to fight as comrades.
Noctis stands opposite them, letting his Engine Blade fall into his hand. He tosses it up into the air casually, lets it disappear again in a sparkle of light. And lets it reappear again, to fall into his grasp once more.
And he does it again. And again.
“Look at him,” Gladio grumbles, “Look at him. Absolute showoff.”
“Don’t hate me because I’m cooler than you, Gladio,” Noctis calls.
Prompto sits off to the side, a stopwatch in his hand and a grin on his face. “Okay, are you ready? You’ve got ten minutes to take Noct down. First man on the ground buys lunch. And we’re talking a gourmet lunch, fellas.”
“Ain’t gonna be me,” Gladio says.
Ignis hums. “Nor me.”
“Yeah?” Noctis grins back at them. “Think you can keep up?”
Gladio lifts his greatsword up to rest past his shoulder, a deliberate show of strength, a cocky grin on his face. Ignis braces himself, daggers lifting, the blades flickering with the first signs of fire.
“Go!” Prompto calls.
Noctis throws his blade and warps.
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