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“Alright! You know this plebe’s got your back,” Prompto says, throwing his arm around Noctis’s shoulders, laughing and catching his breath after the last of their hunt is dead on the ground.
Noctis stops short and frowns, an irritated itch creeping under his skin. “Stop… calling yourself that,” he can’t help muttering, good mood from their small victory immediately souring, and he shrugs him off. Prompto bubbles out a nervous laugh as he falls into step with the others, and pitches him a confused sideways look that he pretends not to see as they dust themselves off and walk back to the Regalia. Noctis keeps his eyes forward, clenching and relaxing his fists at his sides over and over again against the murky feeling in his stomach as his footsteps fall too heavy on the gravel.
The self-deprecating tilt of Prompto’s humor isn’t exactly new, but there’s an undercurrent to it these days that leaves a bitter taste in Noctis’s mouth. It feels deliberate, like he wants to say something, but hasn’t. Or can’t.
Noctis knows the feeling.
He twists his neck to the side as he settles in next to Gladio, looking for the right place to crack and relieve the post-battle tension, and hisses through his teeth when he doesn’t find it. He’s not trying to make a show of his bad mood, but he can’t help it, and he feels like a little kid.
The other three stay quiet on the drive back to Old Lestallum, keeping to themselves, likely sensing the irritation as an instinct from being around each other as long as they have. Prompto’s nervous gaze keeps darting to the rear-view mirror like he can’t help it, and their eyes keep meeting and flicking awkwardly away until Noctis just closes them completely. Gladio’s nose stays mercifully in his book, and Ignis’s attention stays on the road. It’s uncomfortable, and it’s his fault. Just another thing to add to the beginnings of a headache and the constant exhaustion that seems to plague him no matter what he does.
Noctis rests his head against the open window and lets the wind blow through his hair, keeping his eyes closed against the setting sun and the tense atmosphere he always seems to be creating.
---
He doesn't know how to bring it up without sounding lamely chastising, or risking a conversation deeper than he can handle, but he wants to. Feels like he should, really. Almost like Prompto wants him to. It’s like he’s been drawing a dividing line, purposeful or not, constantly reminding the group of his lower status. Noctis just can’t figure out when he started caring, and how to call him out on it.
But it’s distracting the two of them from the few fights they’ve clumsily tripped into as the sky darkens and the unavoidable daemons prowl around, Gladio and Ignis chastising them for their minds clearly being elsewhere. He’s still not really sure how to go about it, but Noctis knows it’s time to bite the bullet.
And he gets his chance, that night sitting on the roof of the motel. But after a tentative approach and some dancing around each other, Prompto beats him to it.
“…I’m nothing, really.”
He says it so quietly, voice wet and wavering, but the words ring in Noctis’s ears like they were shouted.
They’re never serious like this. As long as they’ve known each other, Noctis can count on one hand the number of times he’s opened up this way. Noctis isn’t stupid, and he knows Prompto well enough to know what he built himself up from, how much he’s changed and pushed himself since he was so young, and how hard he tries to be good enough. It’s just so strange hearing him say it.
Noctis looks up at the clear night sky, and blinks slowly. Prompto thinks he’s nothing. Noctis has never heard a bigger lie.
When Prompto speaks his piece and he can finally open his mouth to respond, Noctis wants to kick himself for the way he says it, all of it - he’s terrible at this, as per usual. Joking when he wants shake him or slap him, do anything to make him believe that isn’t true. But through his weak smile Prompto’s fingertips are trembling and he twitches like a startled moth every time Noctis moves to speak, so he says the words like they’re obvious just to get Prompto to look him the eye for the first time since he sat down.
“That’s what’s been bothering you?”
Prompto lowers his head and nods.
He might not think so, but Noctis gets it. God, does he get it - the inferiority, the alienation, the sense that this world will suddenly realize the mistake it’s made with you and open up and swallow you whole. And sometimes, falling asleep just begging it to.
They may come from different places, laughably different to his father - but that’s why Noctis so badly needs him to understand. Understand that no matter what Prompto calls himself or where he was born, it never mattered, and it never will. He couldn’t have made it this far without him. He doesn’t know how to communicate this, especially since Prompto’s still not looking at him, biting his lip. Noctis runs his teeth over his own, in the same spot.
If Prompto thinks he’s the only one who’s been alone this whole time, he’s crazy. But Noctis knows he doesn’t, and he isn’t - it just seems like he can’t see past their status. Which is backwards, considering the fact that he’s the only one who’s never treated Noctis as anything but a person - kept him grounded all these years in the face of all the fawning, and helped him down from the pedestal he never even knew he was put on.
He doesn’t say any of this. He wouldn’t even know where to begin, and the tightness in his throat betrays how much he actually wants to. So he settles, as he always does, for saying less.
But he hopes that even in jest his voice conveys even an ounce of the conviction he’s trying to get across. Prompto’s hand is right there, right next to his, and a simple touch would say more than he could, but his stomach flips at the thought and he feels made of stone as he says, “think what you will, but I think you’re good enough for me.”
It comes out too light again, not nearly as desperately as he means that and without any of the heat he wishes he knew how to put into it. Prompto laughs, and Noctis breathes deep at the sound, but he wants to start over. His pinky twitches, and he can almost feel the heat of Prompto’s thumb in contrast to the cold concrete. He moves it away at the last second to flick blonde hair out of his face, and Noctis’s hand curls around the edge of the roof, feeling strangely bereft, better words lost on his tongue.
---
“Why not snap some pics of yourself for a change?”
Prompto chuckles a little and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, but the swell of pride is evident in his voice, and Noctis can’t help how his cheeks darken just a little bit.
“You mean like… a selfie?” He smiles wistfully, almost to himself, and Noctis can’t hold back one of his own. “I guess I could do that.”
Noctis turns away from him and stares out the window at the endless cover of trees, willing the sun to go down faster so that they can get make camp one more time before leaving on the boat to Altissia and go through them all, laughing and balking and wondering when Prompto even had the chance to take half of them.
Prompto gets a few slaps to the back of the head when they come across any particularly candid battle shots, or ass shots, or anything else wholly embarrassing - but Noctis knows he doesn’t mind. His eyes sparkle every time somebody compliments a shot, and the smile it plasters on his face sticks around the whole rest of the night.
Out of everything, Noctis thinks, that part is his favorite.
Their heart-to-heart hasn’t really changed anything but cleared the air, even though Prompto seems more at ease. Noctis’s stomach still twists when he laughs from behind his camera, and his head whirls with a tangled web of letters and words that he wants to spit out every time they’re alone, but he doesn’t.
---
Altissia comes and goes, Ardyn comes and stays, the world goes to hell, and he keeps his mouth shut. He sees Luna with Prompto in his dreams, their soft edges and happy endings mocking him with what could have been. For days, for weeks, he stays quiet.
For much, much too long, he stays quiet.
---
This place is completely endless.
How long has he been here? Every time he comes across a room with bunk beds it’s the only free breaths he can take down these stifling hallways. He hadn’t thought to keep count, but it’s starting to feel like he’ll never leave.
Noctis is loathe to admit that one of the only small comforts in this place has become the mocking lilt of Ardyn’s voice echoing off the walls. The bastard’s scraping chuckle is the only indication he’s going the right way, that this is all for a cause, that he’s not letting his friends down once again. Every step he takes in this desolate place is for them, and he tells himself this as he lays his head down on the creaky, dusty bed, and prays to the gods that he doesn’t hear the door open to whatever's out there waiting.
He knows that Gladio would give his life for Ignis just as quickly as he would for his king, so he tries not to waste his breath worrying about the two of them. They can manage, he has no doubt. That’s not what has him chewing his lips bloody and clenching his fists so hard they’re sore. The more nights he spends here, the same holds for Prompto, and Noctis doesn’t know whether he hopes he’s alone or not, but if he’s not-
He can’t take that thought further. He runs his fingers through his hair and grips hard enough to tug strands loose, the dull pain cutting him off before things get really ugly. He’s here, and he’s close. He has to be, but as he closes his eyes to sleep, his throat burns at the thought of Prompto spending another night in this fucking place.
Does he even know that Noctis is coming for him? Is he even still alive?
“Help me, Prince Noctis!” he drawls dramatically, hands clasped together and puppy-dog eyes in full effect. “You’re my only hope.”
He presses fingertips into his eyes until he sees spots, and pretends they come away dry.
---
The few? many? nights he’s stayed here have passed in a hazy cloud of half sleep, half waking nightmare, and the exhaustion is getting to him just as much as the stir-crazy. It feels like the whole world has been reduced to one endless hallway after another when he holds his breath and wills his heartbeat slower as the lifeless guards make their passes.
The ring is a help, but it burns like poison through his veins when he uses it and his hands itch to wrap around steel. Or, better yet, the throat of a certain chancellor.
“You musn’t take much longer,” Ardyn drones on, the words drawn and lazy. “Your dear Prompto is waiting for you.”
The taunt is getting old, sounding bored from Ardyn’s lips, and Noctis’s teeth slide together as he walks through the maze.
He’s sitting just far enough away that their legs don’t brush, the light in his eyes paling the lights of this city. The smell of the sea and the gentle rock of the gondola. Gladio and Ignis facing away and absorbed in their own conversation, it’s just the two of them here and Noctis can almost feel himself reach out, but he doesn’t. Why doesn’t he?
Why is he always staying still?
---
It’s like color has finally washed out all the gray of this place even as he sees him hanging there, tied and battered, and when his gaze settles on Noctis it’s like they’re both seeing the sun again. He sprints down the short hallway without a second thought for his burning muscles, ignoring Gladio and Ignis’s shouts to stay on guard, like if he doesn’t get there fast enough this Prompto will disappear like all the others have. He has to know if this is really him, not another fucking illusion made just to taunt him. He doesn’t think he can take it if it is.
His fingertips feel numb as he grabs Prompto’s arm to steady him down to kneel, jackrabbit pulse slamming the blood into his ears like the roar of a waterfall.
Prompto hasn’t taken his eyes off of him, only him, like he might disappear too.
“Tell me,” he starts, breathing and drawing the words out, “were you worried about me?” It’s this first thing Prompto says aside from thank you, and Noctis wants to laugh and probably would have if it didn’t sound so sincere.
How could he even doubt that?
“Of course I was,” Noctis says without missing a beat, voice raspy but firm, leaving you idiot unsaid. “What kind of question is that?”
“I knew you would be,” the words come out like Noctis hasn’t heard since what feels like a lifetime ago, like that night on the roof, small and shaky and nothing like the Prompto they all know. He lets go of Prompto’s arm in favor of squeezing nails into his palm, saving the anger for later. “That’s why I told myself that I couldn’t die, not until I got to hear it from you, Noct. To hear you tell me that I’m not a fake.” He breathes deep and lets it out slow. “That I’m the real me.”
Prompto’s not looking at Gladio or Ignis, he’s looking only at Noctis with this kind of reserved desperation like he’s physically holding himself back, and this time, Noctis can’t help it - extra company be damned. His hand is finally moving after all this time, reaching up to touch Prompto’s cheek and trace along the constellations of freckles. He flinches like he’s going to get hit, and Noctis tries not to notice the patchwork of bruises littering his body. He reminds himself again, like a mantra, that the anger can come later. Prompto closes his eyes and leans into the touch, like no one’s ever been this gentle with him before.
Noctis breathes in sharply because he can feel that it’s him, that he’s real, with a kind of warmth that Ardyn’s magic could never recreate, and he doesn’t have time to stop the tears before they’re staining his face, dripping down his chin quietly and gracelessly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers brokenly through his teeth, and it’s pathetic, but it’s all he can offer.
“Don’t be,” Prompto says quickly, and pulls away. “Everything’s alright now.”
He tries to stand, but Noctis moves his hand to his shoulder and keeps him in place. Prompto looks at him, tiredly curious, but Noctis can’t let it go this time.
He’s wasted so many chances.
“…I’m nothing, really.”
Noctis grabs his hand and squeezes gently, not sure what’s bruised and what’s not, and Prompto blinks, wary. “Prompto,” he tries again, “I’m sorry. I mean it. This wouldn’t have happened if I had just -“
Before he can finish, Prompto suddenly leans forward and closes the distance, and Noctis barely has time to thank the gods that he didn’t have to do it first. It’s tense and awkward at first and Prompto’s crying now, too, and they both know that here is no place for this to happen, but god, it’s finally happening. It’s so tentative and scared and he can feel the tremble in Prompto’s lips against his, until Noctis grabs his collar and pulls him in like he can possibly get any closer, and then breaks the kiss to sob into his shoulder.
He distantly hears what sounds like an I told you so and Gladio and Ignis slapping five, and then their quiet retreating footsteps to give them some privacy and watch the perimeter. He doesn’t care that this isn’t the time or place. Prompto is alive, and it isn’t a trick this time, and even with his nose and mouth pressed against his shoulder, he can finally fucking breathe.
They stay like that, awhile. Just holding each other and soaking respective shirts with tears. Neither of them exactly smell like a bed of roses after all that’s happened but Noctis breathes deep anyway, and it’s familiar, and it’s home. They stay still, each afraid to shift and break the moment, until Gladio and Ignis have to come back in to usher them on - but end up crouching next to them both and making it a group hug.
They don’t have the time to make it much longer, with dangers likely lurking nearby and each of them itching to fight and leave. But the four of them make time, all the same.
---
“I just hope things can stay the way they are,” Prompto says slowly, taking a rattling breath. “I can’t change where I come from. What I am.”
Ah, so that’s it. Noctis bites his cheek as he finally puts it all together. This is where the self-deprecation comes from, the esteem, all the jokes he’s made at his own expense. He’s been trying to tell them, all this time. Everything he’s called himself, a plebe, a loser, worthless - it’s all because of this.
The motel flashes in Noctis’s mind again, for the hundredth since he’s been here, but he sees it now. He understands now, what Prompto meant. Wanting to prove himself. To belong.
And this time, Noctis does laugh.
“So?”
Prompto looks up, eyes wide and eyebrow quirked at the sound, a comical shift from the somber expression he just wore just seconds ago. “Eh?”
“Since when does where you come from matter to you?” Noctis says. “You never once treated me as a Prince.”
Gladio snorts, “he’s got you there,” and claps Prompto on the back almost hard enough for him to lose his balance.
“Never so much as a ‘Highness,’” Ignis says with a smile in his voice, pushing his dark glasses further up on his nose.
Prompto looks like a deer in headlights, as if this wasn’t the reaction he was expecting at all, and Noctis wants to laugh again and kiss the surprised tears away as they roll freely down his cheeks.
“B-but, I’m just some -“ Prompto starts, at a loss, but Noctis moves in and wraps his arms around his waist, secure and what he hopes is reassuring, and smiles as Prompto relaxes into him and grips fistfuls of his coat to pull him closer.
“You’re Prompto,” Noctis says simply as he pulls away, like it’s all the explanation any of them need. He cradles his face in his hands, and kisses him lightly one more time. Gladio snorts again, and they’ll probably both hear it later for all of this, but he can’t help it. He lets him go and spreads his hands wide from his sides, Ignis and Gladio right there next to him. “And you’re one of us.”
Gladio gives an affirmative grunt, and Ignis nods definitively as they both walk through the open door.
“So let’s go, Crown Citizen,” Noctis says, smiling wide, the swell of affection thick in his voice, and offers his hand.
Prompto wipes his eyes and takes it, his signature smile finally back in place - and this time, he doesn’t let go.