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Summary
Gladio is dead.
It’s the first thing Noctis thinks every day upon waking and the last words to echo in his mind at night. Almost four weeks had passed. Twenty-six tortuously long yet frighteningly short days since that encounter on the rocky hillside near the Saxham outpost. Nothing has changed.
The sun still rises later than it should, and sets before its time. Ignis still cooks, Prompto still takes photos, the Regalia purrs along as usual on the rough Leide terrain and Noct is still exhausted from relying on magic during battles. Gladio is dead.
Not one thing has changed, but everything is different.Noct nuzzles into Gladio's neck, sighing. The two lay, snuggling in a way they won’t acknowledge in the morning, a routine as familiar as their years of training back in the Citadel.
“I wish we could stay like this forever…” Noct’s voice is reverent, muffled by Gladio’s neck and the vibrations rumble through the shield’s core. Gladio’s grip on Noct’s hair tightens, not sure if he wants to scream or shout with frustration and devotion.
“Just say the word Princess, I ain’t going anywhere.”