Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The acrid smoke from a hundred fires billows to the heavens, heavy coils of grey and white plumes, retreating from the orange and red hue that dance at their feet. Concrete screams and glass shrieks throughout the city streets as building after building, and everyone in them are attacked, bombed or decimated.   

“Insomnia ablaze.” The suspicious stranger pauses on his climb to the throne room; he leans out of a north facing shattered window, one hand retaining his hat to his head against the wind as he breaths in the chaos and stench of the dying city. His lips, permanently upturned, quirk even more at the sight. The jewel in Eos’ crown, the indomitable and unshakable Insomnia - now with bodies strewn like banners at the Founder King’s Day festival and daemons spreading through the city like violent weeds - was well and truly won. What a blessed sight.

A balance restored.

The battle was short, exposing the toll that maintaining the wall had taken on Regis’s strength and spirit. It was perhaps a little unfair really, just how quickly the King and his Crown City had fallen. If he allowed himself to mine into the mesh of his daemonic soul, the stranger could almost feel bad for him. Almost. Instead, he casts the trim of his black and grey floral scarf over one shoulder and continues his ascent to the throne room. Once there, he pauses on the threshold, two hands flat against the solid door, pulsing with remnants of magic and power.

“For dramatic effect of course,” He muses aloud and finally, steps into his rightful place in life.  

Slick marble floors and walls heavy with intricate metalwork greet him. No matter where you looked, there was black stone polished to an eye narrowing gleam, brushed gunmetal worked motifs and arrogant gold finishes on what felt like every surface.    

“How very, Lucian.” He seethes, the letters bitter as they’re spit from his mouth.  

Two large windows bathed only the throne and its platform in light, the rest of the room gloomy and authoritarian. He’d needed worry about the windows for now. The throne room was wonderfully oppressive, even without any modifications. It was almost as if dear Reggie knew what lay ahead and didn’t see the point in making the place more fitting for the utopia it pretended to be. Who knows, perhaps he was secretly embracing the dark side. The ring did do the most delightful of things to people after all.  

A single finger pushes the brim of his hat upwards, coarse waves of plum hair framing his face as he venerates the void where the crystal’s light once shone down so proudly from the chamber above. A deliberate display, to taunt all those who dared to stand against the Lucii, and those who gave everything to fight for true justice.

There’s a ripple of laughter that radiates through the room, bouncing off the harsh surfaces and it has the stranger turning to identify the owner. He realises, with delight and a further laugh, the noise was his own. He who has lived his life in the dark and in stasis. He who now, can finally think about stepping into the light.  

He throws off his hat, then unwraps not one or two, but three scarves from his neck, each tossed aside with a deliberate flourish and flick of his wrists. Eyes closed, head thrown carelessly, the heavy brushed leather coat drops from his shoulders and he leaves his arms out, suspended in the air as a new victory is bestowed upon him. The only thing greater than being here, amongst the brittle buildings and broken dreams was the most blissful news he’d had for lifetimes.

The Chosen King was without his shield.

It was more exquisite than the decoration in the room, more fitting than the corpses that adorned the city and more captivating than the thought of his own death. Finally, the Lucian line was getting what it deserved. Shield Clarus, dead. King Regis, dead. Shield Gladiolus, dead. King Noctis…

He could imagine it now - the sorrow, the shock and fear. The final line of defence, the last great strength of Insomnia. Slayed in a mediocre battle of no significance and leaving the weak-willed boy-king in his wake. It was more than he could have dreamed.

At the exact point of time’s needle that punctured Noctis’ world, it didn’t end it. Even as a dagger-sharp tusk tears through Gladio, leaving a hole wider than the shield’s arms are thick, in his torso. Even as the serrated edges withdraw, dragging blood and flesh with each point and the hulk of the man collapses.

He didn’t falter, stumbling to his knees in his haste to reach him, his red face wracked with horror and tears as Prompto did. Nor did he dispatch the beast with a belated but accurate throw of a lance before long legs climb the hilltop at an impressive pace as Ignis did; leaping over fallen bodies and rocks to crash into Gladio’s side, cracking potion after potion over him.

He didn’t fall into himself, crying out, all venom and spit as he had when he’d heard of his father’s demise. No, instead Noctis stands silently, gasping from the exertion of battle. His brows furrow as he fights to understand why Gladio isn’t rising despite the potions. The taste of salt in his mouth and water dripping on the lapel of his jacket confuses him even more. He wondered dimly where it came from, as the sky was a perfect cerulean, no rain in sight. He doesn’t move, other than to lower his sword.

A gift, from my father.

Why had he thought that?

It’s still a touch too heavy really, but no way am I admitting that to Gladio.

Another useless thought, one that wasn’t helpful nor relevant. It has nothing to do with what was happening in the here and now. Nothing to do with the sheer enormity of what couldn’t possibly have happened. So why the hell had he thought it. He needed to be here, answering the cries from Ignis, holding Prompto’s hand not in his stupid head. To act, to move. To stop the flow of crimson from Gladio’s chest, to see it, to fucking understand that this was happening – this had happened.   

That was a bit sloppy, big guy, you knew you didn’t have the right angle for the flip, it was clear from your footing.

He hates himself for thinking it. For wanting to smile at the idea of this being just a simple training session; where he’d be ripping the piss out of Gladio so much now, teasing him and throwing all sorts of smack talk at him for the rookie mistake. He wanted to go to Gladio, to crash into the drought-dried soil, yank him into his arms, pull that magnificent being to his chest, tell him he was all of the goodness that was in Noctis and everything that kept the dark at bay. No, he wanted to flee, to close his eyes, get far away from this place, back to the once safe palace, anything to not see this.

You were distracted. You’ll be ticked off for the next hour now, knowing you made such an obvious mistake.

What was he thinking? Why did these stupid thoughts keep interrupting what was actually happening. He needed to get there; he needed to move. He can fix it, he’s the king, right? The all-magical saviour of the land, he should be able to do something. Anything. But he does nothing.  

XXX

Ignis is talking to him, his downturned mouth moving slowly, eyes red behind lenses. He heard the words, understood them even, but he doesn’t reply. Does he want to say a final goodbye, before Ignis covers the rest of the shield’s body with a shroud? He can’t talk, repressed emotion holding his jaw shut and he just wishes they would leave. Prompto with his trembling hand on Noctis’ shoulder, his own shaking as he continues to cry. Its fine.

He’s fine. Noctis thinks numbly, his whole body vibrating with repressed sorrow, dulling his senses but heightening his thoughts.

Mind - locked.

Heart - opaque.

Feet move; they are ahead him, quicker than his thoughts, his body finally reacting and he wishes it hadn’t when he’s alone. With Gladio. A shock of pain travels up his thighs and tells him he’s on his knees, fingertips hovering, reaching to the white silk of the shroud. He doesn’t look up; eyes staying on his hands and the edge of white, a forearm, paler than he remembers, at the top of his vision.

He hears Gladio asking his friend to look at him. But he can’t. He can’t bring himself to look past the arm, up to where the brushed feathers curl over his shoulder. He can’t make himself look upon that face that laughed at everything. Or the lips that were quick to smile at everyone. The brows that told Noctis’ whenever he screwed up and the scar that told him that Gladio lived for him, his shield through and through. He couldn’t let himself hear the rough grumble of his voice, words spoken always sounding like they’d come out of a rock tumbler. Nor let himself remember the crazy antics they got up to together, this band of four young, naïve and foolishly optimistic men. He couldn’t let himself dwell on the adventures that Gladio will never live.

Its closer now; the meteor that threatens to rip though his soul. The threat of it suffocating Noctis with each thought, with each regret. It pushes him, a hand tentatively reaching towards the tattoo.

I want to touch you.

His heart aches as he concedes, the smallest crack of emotion forcing ground.

I…know. This is my last chance.

Dots of moisture hit the ground, white turning grey. Noctis brushes the dirt, covering his tracks and the edge of the shroud lays damp and spoiled.

But I’m scared.

And Noctis knows, despite the prophecy, despite hearing of his father, the fall of his city and people – his home. Despite the horn that ripped open his shield’s chest only hours earlier and left him to die like a worthless piece of vermin. Despite that the worst thing had happened.

I’ve never been scared of you Gladio, not once. But I’m so scared Gladio…

In this moment; lamenting, muscles tensed with the desire to reach out, to hold his friend one last time, to say goodbye. He’d never been more terrified in his life.

That you’re already gone, that you’re not even here before me now.

He takes a shallow breath, as much as the vice on his lungs will allow and closes his eyes, before standing and walking away, head down with his father’s words to walk tall echoing cruelly in the back his mind.

I can’t, Gladio. Forgive me.  

Oh, how the boy will weep.

The stranger feels a stir of regret that he wasn’t the one to instigate the tragedy. But is a small price to pay for such a tantalising thread within the tapestry of time. He settles himself onto the Lucian throne, seeing the harrowing event, even now; with all the miles between himself and the usurper, he can feel every tremor that ran through the false king.

Yes, here he would stay, to pay witness to all of the beauty unfold and await what was to come. For what would happen to the hero now?  The Chosen King. The last of the Lucians.

“The King of Light.”

For the boy – Noctis Lucius Caelum - the shield’s death was an ending, a terrifying final chapter. For the robbed King of Old who had been stepped on, cajoled, underestimated and villainised? It was nothing more than the most glorious beginning. A rise of the blackest sun, whose rich, encompassing rays of purple fear would reach into every heart of Eos.

A dawn two thousand years in the making, and not even Somnus himself could stop it from rising.

Chapter Text

Noctis, alone in the tent, rolls over on the bedroll, staring at the cold and uninhabited space beside him. The empty sleeping bag that gets rolled out every night is still in its usual place. But without the warmth and life it once had.

Gladio is dead.

It’s the first thing he thinks each day upon waking, and the last words to echo in his mind at night. Somehow, 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, making delicious meals that Noct can’t taste and his stomach can handle even less. Prompto still takes photos; though the subjects have changed from selfies of them all, to things that would have made Gladio smile. The Regalia purrs along as usual on the rough Leide terrain; Noctis is still exhausted from relying on his magic during skirmishes and his hair is still unruly.

The king and his two retainers still fight creatures, continuing to take on hunt after hunt. They conquer daemons and march on, ever forward, forming covenants for a battle they feel unequipped and too young to face. They still feel the eerie shadow of the magitek engine above as they get ambushed in the middle of the day.

Noctis is still last to rise and first to bed. Even though he barely sleeps now; getting an hour at most in the early morning, the time when Gladio would have lain a warm hand on the younger’s shoulder to coax him from slumber, whispered promises that Noct will enjoy a morning run if he just gave it a chance. But now - in the suffocating darkness of the pre-dawn - the memories of missed chances and lost touches are too much. It is only as the horizon hums with a hint of light when his mind finally closes, sleep comes and he gets a few precious moments of release from the agony of living.

Gladio is dead.

Not one fucking thing has changed, but everything is different.

“Gladio?” Noctis’ voice is quiet, hushed as he tries not to wake the others even though Gladio is the hardest to rouse. But the sentimental, musclebound bodyguard isn’t asleep, he’s been awake for a while now. Disturbed by the continuous tossing and turning of Noct next to him, silently waiting for him to swallow his damn pride and ask for what he wants.

“What is it, Princess?” his voice sounds thick, even to his own ears and he hopes Noct takes it as sleep related.

“Are you cold?” comes the hesitant reply. Gladio was never cold. Even when he had a cold, and his sneezing kept everyone up at night. The shield’s skin was always warm to the touch. It was likely the main reason why the royal ice block always slept beside him. He smiles in the dark, resisting the urge to reach out and pet the precious idiot. Instead, he indulges him, because it’s Noct, and he’d do anything for him.

“Hm…a little, I guess.” The distant sound of wildlife fills the tent, but no words. Clearly that wasn’t enough of an answer so he adds, “how about you, need warming up?” He cringes slightly, hoping that didn’t seem as suggestive as he plainly meant it. The tent is quiet once again, and Gladio inhales his disappointment. Eventually he feels a gentle tug on the blanket as Noctis shuffles towards him, lying as close as the two sleeping bags allow.

Sitting up a little, Gladio unzips first his own bag, and then his companion’s, fingers grazing the other’s cool hand, on the way past. Settling back down, he pulls the shivering form fully against him, the chill already cooling his broad, ink-soaked chest. Gladio wraps his arms around the young king, tugging him close; one hand placed possessively on the small of his back as the other maps the gentle rises of his spine, pausing briefly to take in the delicate angles of his neck, before finally sinking into the thickness of soft silky hair. Noct tucks his head into the hollow of Gladio’s neck, the shield trembling as a cold nose brushes against his skin.

He strokes Noct’s hair for a while, his mouth brushing against the side of his head, not risking a kiss but leaving one lingering in the air between them. A contented smile plays on his lips as Noctis presses into him; one arm folded between them, stroking the smoothness of Gladio’s chest, fingertips making out the change of the texture as he finds a tattoo feather to trace. A second arm stealthily stretching across Gladio’s hip, fingers occasionally touching his back when want overtakes fear.  

The king tilts his face up to Gladio, lips moving against the line of his jaw as he speaks, breath warming Gladio’s ear.

“Better?” Noct’s voice is hushed and Gladio bites his tongue on a wantful sigh. Hearing that voice in the dark whisper words only for him while their bodies lay entangled was almost too much. It happened more often than he could have dared dream, but less than he wanted.

“Much.” He feels the impression of a smile press into his beard as Noctis moves closer still. “You looked good today, in the marshes, against the Catoblepas. I mean, you did good.” Gladio rolls his eyes at himself, glad of the darkness, making a mental note to slap himself tomorrow for the slip up.

“Hm…” Noctis stretches his hand, fingers splayed against the southernmost tattoo on Gladio’s back. “You looked good too.” 

Gladio grins, scratching Noct’s scalp as he works his fingers through his hair. He longs for these moments, talking as if it's just them alone and there aren’t two other sleeping bodies in the intimate space. The king seems more approachable and attentive in the dark. Fewer inhibitions. Still, too many for Gladio’s liking.

Noctis nuzzles into his neck, sighing, drawing a surprised eyebrow raise from Gladio. 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…” the voice is reverent, muffled by Gladio’s neck and the sentiment rumbles through the shield’s core. Sword calloused fingers curl in Noctis’ hair tightly, Gladio not sure if he wants to growl with frustration or cry out in devotion.

“Just say the word Princess, I ain’t going anywhere.”

Noctis blinks at the empty sleeping bag. Feeling a heavy weight of love and the burden of pain that comes with it. And anger. Gods, so much anger. Anger that he had too much pride and a mountain of insecurities; that he had never let himself truly feel. Anger at never fully letting go. Blame for Gladio, who had always pushed him past his boundaries; except for when it really mattered. When he had needed that strength of conviction, of security, the reassurance of acceptance the most. Why had Gladio never pushed him to do what they both knew they wanted?

A violent fury stirs in Noct, that those secret embraces in the dark were all they ever were. A secret. Even from each other. His breathing shallows, growing more rapid as his mind replays mistakes and what ifs.

Why couldn’t they have just admitted how they...why couldn’t Gladio have just...Why did Gladio have to...

His face twists and a shell of a snarl rips through him. He throws himself at the empty sleeping bag, on his knees, a dagger in hand, ready to tear the thing to shreds. The tip kisses the outer waterproof fabric, and he stops himself at the last second, a hollow cry as he halts his attack. But it's too late. The blade cuts through the first layer of fabric. Such a small cut. So small it would probably go unnoticed if the bag was still in use. But to Noctis it’s the size of the gaping hole left by Gladio’s absence itself.

Dropping the dagger, a small breathless howl sounds as he grips the bag in his hand, now as precious to him as much as the man who used to occupy it. He collapses, head hitting fisted hands, fingers curling into the fabric as he cries without tears, sobbing with no release.

“I’m sorry…” He murmurs into the empty tent, sinking the rest of the way to the floor, clutching the bag into him, the lightweight material too thin and too cool to the touch, it moulding into him instead of Noctis moulding into Gladio.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Noctis repeats the words over and over, unsure if the apology is to the sleeping bag or Gladio himself.

XXX

It takes Noctis a few days to summon the strength to speak to Ignis. At first, he tried to ignore the damage he had done to Gladio’s sleeping bag, but it proves too difficult. The rip in the bag taunting him from the boot of the Regalia by day and seeming to glow in the dark of the tent during the night. It was a painful reminder that Noctis in a pathetic fit of fury had harmed one of the few remnants of Gladio he had left.

Creeping out of the tent with the sleeping bag held tightly in his grip, the dust of the haven blows softly over his boots. He blinks against the harsh sun and spots Prompto and Ignis, their backs to the tent gathered by the camping stove. Pausing in his steps, he considers retreating back to the tent. Mornings were... difficult. A mass of toxic thoughts and feelings, the misery at making it through another night pushing at his throat, clawing their way from his heart, threatening to break free. He typically avoided speaking until at least mid-morning, ideally past lunch time.

“We could do with getting some more curatives this morning.” Ignis pours a fresh coffee for Prompto. It's strange to see them both sharing the early morning ritual that used to be reserved for Gladio. Noctis looks away as he makes his way over to them both, swallowing bile and resentment.

“Are you sure? We’ve got quite a few, I did a quick count last night.” Prompto asks. The king hesitates, reluctant to get involved with the conversation and watches Ignis nod as he takes a long sip of coffee.

“We can’t be too careful Prompto. I’d rather have too many than not enough.” He pauses and sighs. “Especially with how No—”

“Ignis?” The word is strained, Noct’s voice cracking on its way out but still enough to shock both men, Prompto drops his coffee, giving a small yelp as Ignis turns to face him.

“…Noct.” Ignis sounds just as cautious, eager not to disturb whatever has brought the other out of the tent at this early hour and has him speaking before 10am for the first time in weeks.

Noct looks around, taking a breath but saying nothing and suddenly wishing he had just left a note. Closing his eyes, the bag begins to slide slightly reminding him that he needs to do this. For Gladio. He deserves a fully functioning bag and it’s Noctis fault that its ruined. The least he can do is see that it is mended for…

What? For Gladio coming back?

He grits his teeth, jaw tensing and muscles seizing as he walks forward, pushing past the thoughts, holding the bag to Ignis. “Can you fix this?”

Ignis gently takes the bag, knowing who it once belonged to. No one was allowed to touch it but Noctis He was the one to lay it out each night and roll it up every morning. Ignis checks the damage, while he looks away, catching a glimpse of the sadness on Prompto’s face. He immediately drops his gaze to the ground, unable to take any more pity.

“Yes, I should be able to repair it.” Ignis replies softly and he’s careful as he says, “Noct, I will try my best with invisible stitches, but it will leave a join—”

“—Like a scar?” He cuts him off, meeting Ignis’ gaze for the briefest of moments before blinking back to the horizon, unable to handle the few seconds of peace he found in the reassuring gaze.

His eyes are so green…

He can’t remember the last time he had fully looked at Ignis. To those expressive eyes that had given him such comfort over the years, now worn and tired from worry and lack of sleep. As a child, Ignis had been the one that Noctis would turn to for help. The wayward prince could always rely on the reserved adviser-in-training to resolve any problems he might face – or cause.

Until now.

The only problem that Ignis could not fix for his charge was the most important one. Noctis doesn’t blame Ignis, not as such. Though he couldn’t help the thought that he would happily trade the repairs of a lifetime of inconsequential mistakes, for the only one that mattered. Ignis wasn’t infallible, and he had found out in the worst possible way.

“Yes, like a scar.”

“Can you…? Will you…?” He glances up, taking the bundle back from Ignis, feeling stupid for asking but needing to preserve any small part of Gladio that remains with the bag. “Can you try not to touch it too much?” Ignis immediately withdraws, his hands hanging awkwardly in the universe that lay between them and nods. Mumbling a final thanks, Noctis retreats back to the tent.

“Noct; Prompto will be heading out for suppliers soon, perhaps you could go with him? I will have it ready for your return.”

He stops, and nods once, not trusting himself to speak. He sends a silent prayer of thanks to Ignis, grateful for the excuse to be elsewhere when the bag is fixed; a chance to pretend he wasn’t responsible. That it wasn’t his fault that everything was in tatters.

But Noctis knows better.

Chapter Text

The air was still that night, no howling winds or cautious breeze to disturb the canvas shelter. Noctis, however, was not. That evening - like all the others - another long dark passage of shifting, settling, twisting and turning; seeking out a comfort that pillows and bedrolls could not provide.

One more rotation and he’s pressing his face against the wall of the tent breathing out tersely, condensation gathering on his upper lip. It’s a handful of seconds before he stubbornly flips over again facing the void, praying to Bahamut that this time, when he opens his eyes - maybe, just maybe - Gladio will be there looking back at him.

Of course, he never is. Not even here, in the lush, life-brimming Malmalam Thicket; Gladio’s favourite spot on their non-tourist tour of Eos. The damp air and spongy moss carpets were a world away from the metal and concrete of the city. Gladio had explored every inch of the hidden jungle, even ditching the tent at one point and sleeping out on the haven directly. Of course, Noctis had followed him, citing he was only there to safeguard Gladio from rolling off the flattened rock and into the river during the night.

This time, there was no Gladio, or sleeping under the stars. In fact, there was no sleep at all. It had been that way for several days now. There was no hushed banter, only the sounds of the nearby river; water rushing over the short, steep bank, spray hitting neighbouring stones followed by a gradual slowing of the stream past the haven, the whisper of wet foam through the lower rocks that Gladio had stepped over for the last time. The chitters and calls of local critters rustling leaves that Gladio will never again hold aside for his liege, as Gladio would teasingly call him.

Bloodshot eyes blink up at the vaulted folds of the tent as Noctis tries to ignore the sickness in his stomach; his core wound tight, thick with emotion as fingernails dig crescent moons into palms. He forces tense shoulders down into the ground beneath him, hoping to sink through the bedroll and further still into the soil below.

I should have done more.

His face twists against the thought, close to crying from sheer exhaustion. He needs to sleep. Astrals, does he need sleep. Yet, he doesn’t. He can’t, and worse, he knows it. How on Eos can he sleep when his mind is swarming with memories of that day, that battle? Mistakes, decisions, consequences flooding his head unbidden. A sword swung too fast. A block made too late. A cry of anguish. His name yelled across the battle, cut off too soon. A broadsword clattering to the ground.

I should have been more prepared.

The nausea grows, his chest contracting as torment takes root, a single hated tear falling. Were he alone, he would scream. Instead, with a silent snarl, he clamps his teeth down on a slim pale wrist, biting hard and tasting metal. The faintest relief cut with pain shudders through him and he forces himself to bite harder.  

He needs to sleep. His movements that day were sluggish, blurred with fatigue and his lack of concentration barely hidden by his typical silence. Gladio would have known. A once over from the fierce amber glare would have told the trainer in an instant that his charge hadn’t slept. That he would be utterly useless in training. Noctis can almost hear the annoyance in the gruff, confidence-rounded voice as Gladio chews him out for complacency. ‘You can’t beat me on your best day; how do you hope to do it when you're half dead on your feet.’ Except, of course, he can’t hear that voice ever again.

I could have been more prepared.

Ignis’ light breathing, delicate even in sleep, filters towards Noctis. He listens to the soft inhale as he shakily lowers his arm back to the ground, mouth tinged with bile and blood. It’s not long before the rise and fall of Noctis’ chest matches that of Ignis’. Inhale. 63 days. It had been over two months. How had so much time gone already? Exhale. Had it really been less than five months ago that all four of them were safe and sound inside the city walls? Inhale. Before it happened. Before the fall of the city, his home, the death of his father. Exhale. Gladio...

I should have helped him

Prompto shifts, his mouth dropping open with childlike snoring. Inhale. The breathy noise isn’t disturbing but it’s loud enough to let Noctis know, that at least for now, Prompto had no thoughts on his mind. Exhale. Nothing about battles or prophesies or fallen comrades. Just a stillness, a solace that alluded himself. Inhale.

I should have saved him.

They never should have left. The thought attacks him, interposed with others and Noctis knows it’s pointless. They had to make this journey. Exhale. But still, he thinks it. He thinks what if, if only, why me and how the hell does he carry on as normal.

Because nothing will ever be normal again.

Time should stop. The sun should stay set; its rays downcast and banished, humbled by Eos’ loss. The stars should dim their night-time glow, no strength or will to shine as they once did. And yet, the three young men, burdened by a life lost and an impossible task, pass people in diners, at Lestallum market and the few locals living in the country, and no one knows. How can they not know? How can their life continue as usual, as if the very oxygen from the air they breathe hasn’t been poisoned? As if the earth beneath their feet hasn’t lost all moisture, leaving a dry husk of a landscape. How can they not feel the ramifications of Gladio’s death? Even those that never met him should still sense the sorrow. The ache. The absence of hope, joy and all that is good.

Gladiolus Amicitia was light, love, loyalty. He was everything.

Inhale. And now… What? Now Noctis is supposed to continue his crusade as if the sun hadn’t just gone out? Exhale. As if every single second since wasn’t so utterly bereft of meaning.

Inhale. Eventually the sound of sleep begins to grate on him and he can’t take listening to their peace any longer. Glaring at them in the dark, he slips out of the tent, fingers skimming his neighbouring sleeping bag on the way out. Exhale- Outside, he zips the flap closed against his anger and stumbles to his feet.

The night air lays wet and heavy on his skin, hair sticking to his neck within moments as he tries to calm the panic rising in his chest. Soft mud and leaves gather in the folds of well-worn boots as he shuffles away from the tent, hoping the distance will make it easier to breathe. Another step forward sends him swaying, arms out, tipping shoulder first into a nearby rock face. With knuckles torn by stone and grit he collapses against the wall, drawing in one ragged breath after another.

The smell of haven-fire smoke lingers, anchoring Noctis as he wipes an arm down his face, a smear of drying blood from his bitten wrist coating his nose. He looks skyward, away from dirt-stained skin and clothes that now hung too lose on his frame; up to hues of muted grey and darkest blue, holding on to each inhale as long as he could.

The pounding in his head quietens to a constant thud as he gives up on sleep and mentally searches for something to do, any task to keep his hands and mind busy. Thoughts stumbling with his steps and he settles on night-fishing. Gods, it had been so long since his last catch. Since he’d done something so normal, that he can’t even recall the last time he had fished.

He seeks out the river at the end of the clearing with steadier steps, trying to remember where he had cast his last line and falters at the short jetty, staring into the open space before it dawns on him, and suddenly he’s trying not to think about it at all. Trying not to remember the last time they had fished together.

Off to the left, the water breaks, and a fish, airborne for a second, disappears back under the surface in a twist of charcoal and gold scales, pulling Noctis’ thoughts into the murky depths with it, his mind playing flashes of smiles, small dusk bathed memories and the sweetest of touches...

“Trust me, Noct; this will be a fishing experience to remember.” Gladio promises, stripping his Crownsguard shirt off with one hand. Late morning sun filters through the leafy canopy, lighting the myriad of insects humming about. Prompto gives a final wave as both he and Ignis set off in the opposite direction to the pool, on their own quest to find new ingredients for their dinner tonight. Gladio watches them go, then grins like the coeurl that got the cream and wades into the shallow pool of the thicket, the water deliciously cool on his calves after the sweet humid air of the forest. Arms reach skyward, inked feathers floating as he breathes in deeply, tasting pollen. Gladio couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so relaxed. He’d persuaded the others to extend their stay in the forest for another day, grateful to avoid the dust and the dirt of the road for a while longer. It was an added bonus that the labyrinth nature of the area afforded Gladio more privacy with Noct than the open plains.

Noctis glares at him from under long lashes, dipping a toe into the river and visibly shivering. It only takes one teasing scoff from the shield before he follows suit, a second t-shirt dropped carelessly on the riverbank and ripples spanning wide as he splashes in. “Son of a Shiva! It better be worth getting hypothermia for!” Noct’s scowl deepens, but he moves further into the river nonetheless. He’s accompanied by a few more exclamations and a pout that Gladio finds more sexy than sullen.

Gladio trudges further in, towards a secluded bay in the river bed where an overhanging tree dances in the water. “This is the perfect spot! Stop sulking and get your ass over here.”

Gladio had convinced him to spend the day fishing by hand – no rods allowed. The Lucian heir declared the idea ridiculous - he had more fishing rods than weapons after all – but then had promptly agreed, muttering that Gladio could be the one to tell Ignis why they’ve returned to camp with no dinner. In all honesty Gladio had no idea if they would catch anything. But he knew that with a rod in his hand, Noct would have a bite within minutes and their time alone would be over.  

“It’s all about patience; nurturing the right environment, finding the ideal location, and allowing the fish to come to you.” Gladio catches the roll of Noct’s eyes and the huff in his steps. He ignores the ‘so much easier with a rod’ and ‘been waiting to try out my new bait for days’.

“Look around this area, and I’ll check this shaded spot.” Gladio nods towards their respective zones within the small alcove, flexing unnecessarily and acting like the once-over Noct had given him wasn’t something he craved. Noctis holds his gaze for a moment longer than was needed before turning back to the water.

“I still think this is stupid. But we’re here now, so we’re not leaving here until we’ve caught something. Even if we’re here all day, got it?”    

“Fine by me, Princess.” His smile sneaks into the words and the two of them scan the river for fish in charged, companiable silence. 

“Hm, nothing here.” The king mumbles after what feels like no time at all, more to himself than Gladio. He’s movements are minute, cautious, dust and pebbles barely disturbed as he lowers in a similar squat as Gladio, now fishing in earnest.

There it is…

Gladio, low to the water and hands submerged, watches as all tension leaves Noct in a way it never truly did in the city. The once prince, now king, had matured in the short time since crossing the wall; his hair, typically shorter and more groomed, now rested lazily on broader shoulders, product free and untamed. His skin, where previously so pale it occasionally looked pallid had the suggestions of a healthy tan for the first time.  Forearms dipped under the surface, taunt with muscles that had developed organically, with the shifting of camping gear every day rather than running drills in the training hall.

Gladio hunkers lower, the seat of his pants now in the water, watching with a smile on his face and enjoying the tuts of frustration as Noct spots a fish, makes a grab for it, and ends up with a handful of gravel.

“You’re doing it wrong.” Gladio calls out, secretly hoping he’ll be caught staring.

After years of training together, he thought he had learned everything there was to know about Noct’s body. The twitch of deep muscle when he was irritated, the fidgeting of fingers when he was stressed, the hunch of shoulders when he needed to be alone. He thought he knew everything about him. But he hadn’t seen the warmth of Noct’s smile each time they stumbled upon a new fishing point. He hadn’t known how cute he looked with just a handful of freckles on his arm from long days driving in the sun. Or how the dust and grit that battered them in windstorms would weather Noctis’ skin and age him from a young bratty prince to a hot – slightly less bratty – man.  

“I don’t think there is a right way to do this big guy. This is obviously some elaborate scheme to undermine my fishing abilities.” Noct stands upright, one hand resting on his hip, the other running through mussed hair. He holds the overgrown fringe back from his face, a few drops of water trickling down his arm, and splashing onto his bare chest. Gladio appreciated the pin-up pose, but the confidence, the freedom and ease that Noctis carried in himself when it was just the two of them made him the most beautiful he’d ever been. It takes more self-restraint than Gladio knew he possessed not to confess to Noct right there and then, in the shaded pool that now felt like it belonged to them. 

“Are you accusing me of ulterior motives, Your Highness?” Gladio raises an eyebrow, his voice low, mindful to manage the right level of flirting.  

“Maybe,” Noct grants him a quick smirk, here then gone. “What kind of trainer doesn't give a demonstration?”

“’Thought you’d never ask.” A few strides and one wink later, Gladio stands behind him, resting a hand on Noct’s waist and gently nudging a foot with his toe. “OK, weight in the heel of your feet, drop to a low squat,” Both men lower, Gladio’s knee brushing against Noct’s leg as he shifts closer. “It's all about controlled movements. You’re gonna wanna wriggle your toes, just enough to create interest, but not enough to freak them out.”

“Bait toes, got it.”

“Then make an enclosure with your hands.” He creates a loose, open grip with his hands, glances at Noct’s poor attempt and shakes his head kindly. “No, you need to relax your grip more. Here, let me…” Gladio shifts, dropping his knees and encircling his arms around Noct, thumbs running down forearms, enjoying the soft shiver he leaves behind as he cups the king’s hands in his, fingers interlocking just enough to be both casual and possessive. “Yeah, like that, keep your hands nice and relaxed, but ready to close when a fish approaches.”

“Now what?” Noct whispers, partly lost in Gladio’s arms being wrapped around him, firm thighs warming his back.

“Now…” He lowers his chin to Noctis’ shoulder, not resting on it, but hovering above, asking permission to move closer still. “…we wait.” With pebbles digging into his knees, the position is awkward and cramp-inducing but Astrals above he couldn’t be happier. It would be so easy to kiss him. The smallest of movements, really. They both want it, Gladio knows it. Noct knows it, even if he won’t admit it; shallow breathing and tension in his back betraying his feelings. “Noct…” Gladio exhales the name, and relaxes into the scent of him; and he smells like everything.

Like the heat and sensuality of summer, and the mystery and promise of fresh rain.

Like adventure, possibilities waiting to be explored and the heady blend of a life already shared.

Like royalty, friendship. Love.

Noct tilts his ear towards him and leans back into the eagle tattoo, pale skin kissing tan, the air between them gone.

Noctis blinks, the weighted slap of a clammy, flopping brick bringing him back to the present. Staring dumbly at his surroundings, it takes another splash of a tail to realise he has waded - clothed and booted - into the river; to that secluded spot that had seen memories of what could have been. Calf-deep in water, hunched and hands under the surface, the cold seeps through to his consciousness as a fish continues to wriggle in his grip. He studies it, bringing it closer in the dim night-lighting. A face of silver scales, scattering into a mix of blues and greys along the breadth of the body. A Bluegill. Usually, a firm favourite amongst the group as it was easy to catch and serve.

And now, Noctis hated that about it. That this, something he hadn't asked for, had been so easy to attain. When the one thing he truly needs is impossible to retrieve. Fingers retract deliberately, enclosing scales, fin, and frantic twitching. He could kill it; this foolish creature that had swam so trustingly into his grasp. It would be so easy to squeeze the life from it. What difference would one more death by his hands make?

A glassy eye stares back up at him, flecks of gold shining against the silver body. Legs shake, giving way and he falls to his knees in the shallow water, watching the fish splash furiously, eager for escape.

Slowly, one digit at a time, he opens his hands, the gill seizing its chance and skittering off into the murky distance, leaving the young king listless and alone. The open air at his back pressing solidly into him like a door slammed closed.

Chapter Text

Noctis used to think of anger as a quick, sudden sensation. One that abruptly takes over, turns vision red and sets hearts racing, only to as rapidly disappear again as the individual returns to a ‘normal’ state. That’s how it was for Gladio whenever the prince acted out during training or Cor chewed him out for mistakes in front of the crownsguard.

But that isn’t real anger. Noctis knows that now, despite the outbursts, colourful language and occasional weapon thrown at him. Those moments were mere irritation, a dim flare of aggression.

No, Noctis had learned that real anger is not hurried, nor sharp to fade. It is a languid, shrewd creature. A brazen hunter, poorly disguised as it followed them from the camp at morning to the royal tomb that Ignis had discovered. It sojourned in the vegetation, a daemon in daylight biding its time until it once again stalked the sad party of three, clinging to the king’s back as they returned to the haven that evening.

It had maintained its vigil when Noctis clambered down toward the glowing elemancy stones, keeping him company in a way that Ignis and Prompto could no longer. Until finally, when he’d reached the harsh blue-white light of the ice rocks - the furthest away from camp and just outside the safety of the haven - it slowly spread over the young man’s skin. The viscous emotion covering every inch of him, hindered not by clothing or will.

For the first time that day, Noctis acknowledges it. The thick, greasy oil that covers his entire being, sinking into open pores and merging with his blood and magic. It enters his nose and mouth with every breath, consuming him and it should feel wrong, as not a single inch of him is left untouched. Instead, he finds a release, a freedom from the burden of what he should be doing, thinking, feeling. He inhales the scent of tar, taking it into him further, inviting it to numb him from the inside out and allows his mind to wander with it.

Formless images move through his thoughts, a figure screaming, weapons slicing limbs, the ground caving in. He staggers down between the razor edges of the magical rocks, forearms and wrists weeping from a dozen tiny cuts from the stone. He needs to do something. He needs to act, to ignite the flammable energy within him. The royal tomb hadn’t been enough, the fight surprisingly easy when fuelled with rage.

A steady thud draws his attention back to the world outside his head. A heavy, rhythmic thumping growing in urgency. It takes him a long-disorientated moment to realise he’s making the sound, pounding the toe of his boot into the shards of the iced rock. He needs something, a fight, an argument. Astrals, anything…

A foul sulphur-like stench fills the air as nearby bubbles of black, purple and silver form, growing steadily and a group of flans appear. Further off, a formidable looking iron giant stalks the perimeter of the road. It’s not even paying attention to the magical haven so Noctis dismisses it as a threat. He summons a sword and warps towards them, driven by adrenaline and stupidity. He’s still a blur of blue, emerging from the warp as the two flans slide apart, revealing two more behind them.

Shit.

***

“I told you Iggy, I’m fine.” Prompto flexes his newly bandaged arm to show just how fine he was, the movement staccato and clumsy, halted by pain and a fake smile plastered on his face. Enough shame remains in Noctis to have him turning away, staring at the fourth camping chair and regretting the silent accusation it made.

“It is not fine Prompto, you could have died.” The last word is thrown at Noctis. Ignis is right, of course. He always is. In fact, if Prompto hadn’t been keeping an eye on the king - jumping into the skirmish as Noctis finally took down the third flan, only to miss that his escapade had alerted the iron giant – it’s highly probable that Noctis himself could have died.

“Noctis, you cannot keep doing this! Blindly running into battles on some foolish vendetta or as a cry of lunacy.” Ignis, normally so calm and reassuring was nothing short of barely restrained fury. With eyes darkened and each movement precise and clipped in anger it cuts through Noctis’, reaching a part of him he long thought gone.      

Old Noctis would have been bereft, apologising to his best friend, begging for forgiveness and promising to let Prom win at Kings Knight for the next month. It should be easy to say, the words already forming in his head even as his tongue refuses to voice them. He didn’t mean for Prompto to get hurt, heck he wasn’t even supposed to be there. All he wanted was a few minutes to explode, to expel the never ceasing anger that even now, despite the remorse in his soul and tears in his eyes still lingered quietly in the shadows.

And instead, he’d cost them more potions, nearly cost Prompto everything. And it was his fault. Again. Just like with Gladi…

“…you have to at least try to move on.” Ignis resigns, but the defeat in his tone has the opposite effect and Noctis sinks back into the fortified armour of simple anger. He lets it numb him, can see it rippling across the sanctuary of the haven as it taints everything it comes into contact with. Like the starscourge itself infecting everyone it touches leaving nothing but hurt and chaos in its wake.

His fingers, now tight with tension grip the handle of Gladio’s greatsword. He doesn’t remember summoning it but there is no ambiguity as Noctis with a shaking arm, turns the shield’s favourite weapon on his oldest friend.

Noctis lunges forward, hissing, “do not tell me how to behave Ignis. I carry my grief as I wish to.”

Ignis blinks dumbly, brow furrowed as his king, friend and brother pulls the weapon on him. Memories of the last time it was used – out of protection and love from Gladio – has Ignis stepping into the blade. The point itches to sink into skin, disappointment radiating up the steel and burning the handle.

“Like a stone around your neck, dragging you down,” his voice is thick and it breaks through Noctis like Ramuh’s judgement bolt as he adds “but unfortunately we go down with you.”

The silence grows between them, stretching out like the roads of Eos before Ignis steps back from the sword. Noctis watches him, heart shrinking as a trembling hand runs over his face, hiding his expression as he speaks through his fingers.

“Gladio would not want this for you Noctis.”

Noctis clicks his tongue and hardens his expression. Finally, the blade drops, the weight of it too cumbersome to bear and the point twists into the soil, leaving an echo in the dirt that eventually time and wind will erase.

“It doesn’t matter what he would or wouldn’t want Ignis. He’s gone. And he’s not coming back.” In one fluid movement he dismisses the sword and scuffs the depressed soil underfoot.

“But we aren’t,” Ignis implores, hands reaching towards the other man before thinking better of it and letting his arms drop hopelessly. “We are still here for you Noct. Please, we need to stick together to get through--“

“--What Iggy?” The once special nickname now carelessly thrown as if it were another weapon.

“To stride into a battle with Ardyn that we both know I won’t return from? What do I get from pushing the memory of Gladio to one side and embracing my destiny with a smile on my face?” Noctis rallies, grateful for the fire in his gut and the ease in which it dismisses his hubris and he finds words he didn’t ask for spilling from him, banishing the apology he should have given Prompto earlier. “What do I get for my victory? A hero’s welcome? Do I get to see Insomnia rise from the ashes? No, I get to burn down with her. Me, Ardyn, the deamons; all of us in a melting pot of shit and chaos. And that’s the best-case scenario.”

It's cruel to throw his own death in his adviser’s face; Ignis and Prompto will have to lose another friend at some point. But he can’t think about that. He can’t even think about Gladio, can’t risk clutching the memory of him in his mind should it unmoor the safety that the toxic wrath gave him.

“There are worse things than dying, Noctis.”

“Tell that to Gladio.” He snaps, before turning away, avoiding the despondent look that was no doubt on Prompto’s face. The sight of the fourth camping chair that Prompto set out every night stops him again; the Coleman’s logo silent in its judgement of the so-called True King.

“Come on Prince Charmless, show me.” Gladio’s grin comes easy as he reaches out to Noctis, a hint of a playful pout as he makes a show of attempting to steal the other’s phone.

“No way! You’ll make me delete it and I like it.” Noct waits until the last second, rewarded by fingers grazing the fine hairs on his arm before he yanks his phone out of reach, folding cat-like deeper in his camping chair. “And don’t call me that.”

Noctis glances back at the phone and Gladio’s heart swells as the normally caged expression softens with quiet fondness, an undeniable affection brightening his cheeks as he studies the screen. The shield reminds himself for the third time in as many minutes that the prince is looking at a photo of him. OK granted, he knew the photo didn’t show him in the best light – Noctis had immediately burst into uncharacteristic giggles after he had snapped it, after all. That barely mattered – he could be gurning in it for all he knows but whatever made Noctis smile like that was worth it. But still, he keeps up the pretence, softening his deep baritone to a half-flirting, half-whining sound.

“I won’t, I promise! I just wanna see it.” Noctis ignores him, his silhouette beautifully framed by the late afternoon sun that warmed the haven. It was still early for camp; not yet evening with the magical fire scarcely visible at this time of day. Being out of the city was changing them for the better; a bigger world and a deeper partnership growing between them all. They’d only left Insomnia a week before when Ignis suggested they take a day off from duty and their journey to Altissia – ‘to go civilian’ as he had put it.   

There had been a flurry of concern for the adviser; quietly of course as none of the other three men wanted to risk losing an actual day off. They’d slept in late, the morning sun long free of the horizon by the time Gladio stirred, and for once he didn’t bother with his run. He’d stayed right where he was, snug and content, curled up next to the sleeping prince. An easy hunt before lunch followed, boyish banter and name calling tossed around as easy as swords as they tucked into a simple yet delicious selection of cold cuts and cheeses.

Once sated with good food and fine humour, the four of them had paired up to play King’s Knight – Noctis and Prompto as undisputed champions laying a gauntlet before the newbies – or oldies as Prompto now crowned them. The overzealous whooping from the younger men at each victory they scored had Gladio and Ignis sharing a long-suffering look.

It was only as the sun crested over the sky that Gladio recognised the restlessness blooming in Ignis, the familiar unease when downtime stretched too long. It usually appeared right around the moment Ignis felt uncomfortably relaxed. Gladio cleared his throat, catching Noctis’ eye, and gave a small nod towards Ignis. Noctis replied with a knowing smile, tossing a glass flask to his advisor and asking his thoughts on multi-cast magic strategies for their next hunt as he led him towards the fire point.

Gladio had stayed behind with Prompto, weapons spread out across the dusty ground, the two of them claiming separate patches of camp to clean and check gear. Prompto hummed under his breath, half-singing some retro pop song while Gladio worked in quiet rhythm, their chatter drifting between stories, jokes, and stretches of peaceful silence.

Even with the gentle shift from carefree day to admin chores, the warmth and camaraderie remained; Prompto and Noctis finding time to regale the others with stories from their ‘glory days’ and all the times they’d snuck out without Ignis knowing. They were quickly cut down by Gladio’s deadpan revelation that he’d followed them every time, and that yes, Ignis had always known about their secret hideout on the roof.

By the end of the day, with Prompto dragging Ignis off to examine some rare herbs he’d spotted just beyond the camp – ones he insisted were absolutely safe to eat – Noctis had charmingly regressed back into a teenager. His voice was softer, his smiles and laughter unburdened and decidedly more flirtatious, as if all inhibitions had fallen away and he was once again a carefree fifteen-year-old. It was in that moment the royal paparazzi struck, an unsolicited and clearly hilarious photo of the shield snapped and secured for posterity.

“Come on, Your Highness,” Gladio drops his voice low, the sound rolling out like a carpet of velvet. He knew enough to know what his prince liked, even if Noctis couldn’t admit it. “It is my face after all; shouldn’t I get to look at it?”

Gladio swallows his satisfaction as Noctis twists in his seat slightly, finally looking up at him like sin itself, a sharp brow raised over eyes bright with sly innocence and biting his lower lip.

Touche.

He narrows his eyes, focused on the hunt as Noctis shakes his head, cradling the phone to his chest, safely out of reach. Gladio stretches his forearm casually over the side of his chair, muscles taut and veins visible as he flicks the cloth arm of his companion’s seat. The distance between them is short enough that he could grab the phone if he really wanted it. In fact, from here he could push that stray lock of fringe that had fallen, delightfully caressing Noctis’ cheekbone, or brush a thumb across the soft pink flesh of the bitten lower lip, or perhaps trace a finger down the tempting curves of the lump that bobbed in his throat. But as always, the thrill was in the anticipation, of toying with Noctis; and he didn’t want that to end just yet.

“You know I could just make you, Prince Charming.” Gladio winks at the adorable blush that blossoms over Noctis’ face and he doesn’t miss the flicker of the azure gaze over his lips before Noct meets his eyes again. He takes it as a win; a point scored in this delicious dance they did.

“Why don’t you then?” Noctis challenges, his voice sounding less teasing and more inviting and Gladio wonders if he’s reading too much into it, carried away by the lightness of the day. Either way, he reacts fast, grabbing the other chair and yanking both it and the king towards him.

The camping chairs are strong, but also lightweight and the force of Gladio’s pull plus the solid weight in his own chair causes both to tip towards each other.

“Gladio!” Noctis yells, all flirtation forgotten as he drops his phone, both chairs collapsing into one another as the men are thrown together, a medley of tumbling limbs, metal and canvas seats. Gladio’s hip thuds against the ground, the jolt rattling him for a moment before he brackets his arms around the prince to brace his fall. They lie in a messy pile, breathless with broken laughter and chests pressed together. Gladio winces at the pain in his hip, knowing it was worth it and tempted to interlock his fingers with Noctis’ as he tries to find purchase against the wall of Gladio’s chest.

“Well, I missed your phone, but at least I’ve got the catch of the day, right?” He jokes awkwardly, his usual confidence undermined by the terrible fishing pun and a flicker of worry that he’d gone too far. He waits for the typical rebuff from Noct, but his laughter trails off when he notices Noct staring at him, those intense blue eyes cutting straight through him. Gladio swallows hard.

There had been glances before; secret touches and hidden moments between them. But Noctis had never looked at him like this – like he was silently begging to be kissed.

Noctis closes his eyes, not wanting to see the chair anymore, and everything else fades into the background. It had only been a moment, a fraction of time they spent too close, gazing at one another before Noctis had foolishly pulled back just as Gladio had leaned in.

Yet another painful example of their wasted opportunities. He should have kissed Gladio then, should have kissed him before they had even left on this forsaken trip. Maybe things would have been different. A hundred tiny decisions, each one seeming meaningless, had led them up to the moment when Gladio had died, fulfilling his duty as shield, protecting the king and losing himself in the process.

He couldn’t stop the thickness rising, crawling up his chest, clutching at his throat – no longer a balm, but a force threatening to strangle him from the inside out. He hated the abyss of never seeing Gladio again, yet the agony of remembering him was far worse. A torrent of dread, anguish and regret floods through him. He needs to shut it down. Control it. Stop it before he succumbs to the loss.

He grits his teeth so hard they ache, swallowing down the thick paste choking his throat. It’s the only way he can do this, that he can keep getting up in the morning. By keeping everything at bay, to hold back the wave. Eventually he starts to feel it, the hollow numbness as cold anger replaces the hurt, eyes no longer misting and harder than ever.

He turns back to Ignis. His voice flat not with sorrow but with clarity as he says, “You’re right. There are worse things than death.”

Chapter Text

The king, battle-weary and emotionally enervated from an afternoon of hunts that drained the dregs of his limited reserves, stops just shy of the edge of the escarpment. With a falling warmth and dulling colours, the sun dips low to meet the horizon, shamed into shadow by the melancholy that clung to Noctis. He tracks its descent, the dusk spilling out over the shoulders of the land before succumbing to the faint relief in his solitude, closing heavy lids against the final wisps of daylight. The darkness settles over him spreading its cold hands like an over-easy lover, as untracked time crawls by, empty and meaningless with no consideration from the broken man. Lifting his face to the moon that has yet to show, Noctis exhales a silent prayer for an endless night, and only when he knows all trace of the day has gone - the cloudless sky illuminated by the full moon and stars - does he finally open his eyes.

The harsh terrain below stretches out for miles upon miles, thinning until it folds in on itself, no more than a hazy blur. Its vast. Gods is it vast. A relentless expanse peppered with the aura of daemons spawning and moving across the space. Noctis knows it would take no time in the Regalia to travel across the land, a few hours maybe; but the distance in number of breaths? The measurement of forced conversation and companionship? The length of living is just too much, too far and too long, overwhelming with no end in sight. The ragged overhang of the crag and the promise of the steep void below offers an easier reality to stomach and Noctis finds himself leaning towards the option, weight shifting as he looks down past his feet, as if he can see the promise of the ground below through the dark. There is a magic reserve at the bottom, fire crystals faintly glowing red against far off boulders. The elevation makes it easy to miss but the king knows that it’s there. He’s been to this point before; a few times now.   

A soft scuffle to his right alerts him that he’s no longer alone, that even here in the silence of the night he can never be free. He doesn’t look up, only flicks his gaze towards the sound knowing who it will be; Ignis’ worry echoing louder than his tread as he approaches cautiously, keeping a safe distance.

“Noctis…”

The word is soft and calm with no hint of alarm but Noctis knows him well enough to note the clip of the c in his name and that his adviser’s jaw is tight, the right eyebrow more angled than the left. It has taken a lifetime of friendship but he can recognise when the stoic man is panicked. Still, he doesn’t move away from the precipice, nor does he do anything to reassure Ignis he won’t do what he suspects. He offers no words of comfort, only tracing the edge of the cliff with his thoughts.

It's not like he hadn’t considered it.

Taking just one more step…

Such a tiny action, nothing really compared to the alternative.

He thought about it almost as much as he thought about Gladio. The two feelings reflecting in one another, a continual mental image of missing Gladio reverberating in self-destruction. Like one of those optical illusions, a mirror reflecting a mirror reflecting a death wish. But while Noctis is a lot of things - selfish, broken, toxic and hateful - an idiot he is not. A fall like this won’t solve anything.

It’ll take a lot more than a simple tumble from a mountain to finish him off, no matter how high. Heck he’d probably warp to safety just out of instinct. No. It would take something much more powerful to destroy his body. Of his soul, there was little left.

Ignis steps closer to him, quicker this time, calling his name again with a hand reaching out to him, disturbing the dust and stones on the ground as much as Noctis’ thoughts. Hands clench, stiff with a cold he doesn’t feel.

Why can’t they just leave me be?

Oh, how he wished both Ignis and Prompto would one day just walk away and leave him. Leave him to fade away with nothing but memories of happier days. But no, here Ignis is, trying his best to stay calm as he watches the only hope Insomnia has fall into an abyss he may never come back from.

Noctis knows it is only a matter of time before Ignis asks if he’s OK. If he’s hungry. If he’s cold. If, if, if. What can he do to help? What does Noct need? Why, when, how. Always questions that Noctis doesn’t have any answers to and… he can’t; he just can’t do this anymore.

It surprises them both when he cuts Ignis off before he gets the chance to ask any questions, blurting out; “He’s afraid of heights. Did you know that?” Finally, Noctis turns to look at Ignis, he doesn’t say his name, he never does. But the adviser knows who ‘he’ is.

“No, I… didn’t.” The surprise is obvious, Ignis’ voice still carrying concern but he’s shocked to find out something so significant about his best friend after his passing.

Noctis feels a weighted fluttering in his gut, unsure if it was guilt or pride at the thought of not even the great Ignis Scientia knowing that detail about Gladio. This was something his friend had shared only with him; another secret between shield and king and a fresh wave of grief hits him, nausea swarming as the hopelessness of the situation pulls him under.

A sudden want to see Gladio rips through him. Just once, that’s all he wants. To see him again, to have the chance to hold him. Thank him. The cold of the night begins to seep into his bones, the spell of indifference broken and Noctis pulls his jacket across his chest, constricting his arms as he clings on to the lapels, head dropping onto his hands. He swallows down the trust and vulnerability that Gladio gave him before speaking again.

“Because he doesn’t want anyone to think he has any weaknesses.”

Ignis, sensing the threat of danger has passed, steps in line with Noctis, smiling sadly. “That is very Gladio. He always had to be the strength of us.”

“That’s his problem, always making everyone around him believe he is indestructible. But he isn’t,” clammy air from the words skim over his hands, emphasising the chill that had seeped through him from hours of standing at the lookout as he quietly corrects himself “…wasn’t.”

Gladio senses the shift in the atmosphere, the air fizzing with tension and he knows that Noct has followed him to the peak, again. He throws a quick glance over his shoulder to let the king know he’s been rumbled and swiftly swallows a rebuke at the sight of him. Watching, silent; arms crossed and carrying that delightful head tilt he always had, a dark fringe shielding his eyes from the still bright sun and his expression a blend of amused curiosity and open admiration.

Gladio says nothing, taking some strength from his companion and turns back towards the tiring sun, his silhouette yawning across the space. Shoulders back as he stands tall; near the drop, but never too close.

As usual, Gladio had made his excuses and left the camp shortly after dinner to take in the sunset. It had started a few weeks before, with the shield throwing both Noctis and Prompto a middle finger for the lewd comments that followed his request for a bit of privacy. It wasn’t at every haven - only when they camped at high vantage points; cliffs, the side of valleys, hilltops or the like - that Gladio would disappear around sunset.

The week before had been the first time that Noctis had wordlessly followed him, finally picking up on the pattern. Since then, he had joined him, a blade alongside the shield. Never interrupting, just patiently waiting as Gladio stepped forward on whatever mountaintop or hillside they were on, testing how close he could bear to go.

Gladio never looked up to take in the view; narrowed eyes remaining resolutely on the safety of the solid earth beneath his boots so he can judge how close is too close to the brink. Each time was a new opportunity for progress, a half step further, an exhale closer to where stone met sky. It was strange. The challenge to himself surprisingly made easier with Noctis nearby, his sparring partner a brace of support willing him to his next personal best.

And at the point where Gladio’s pulse would begin to rush uncomfortably, where the few drops of moisture on his brow told him he had exhausted his will for that day, he would let out a wavering breath, unhurried steps backwards retreating to safety. Only when the tension slid from his shoulders, out through unclenched hands and a small smile reaching the base of his scar would Noctis’ quiet steps head to camp ahead of him. No explanation required and no teasing comments.

Until today.

The peculiar, half erupted volcano of Ravatogh was the highest point they’d been to. It was the third time they had stayed here and the precarious campsite was proving to be a challenge too far for Gladio. He’d chosen the haven this evening, his frustration at his own lack of progress making him more reckless with his commitments when the men were safely parked at Verinas Mart on flat ground. Here, in the shadow of his adversary, his feet and heart were failing him once again. For the first time Noctis steps forward.

“Why do you do this if you’re scared?” His voice is hushed, an invitation to answer, but not a demand and Gladio responds gruffly with a knee-jerk,

“-’m not scared.”

Noct’s laugh is charming, the gentle sound telling him he’d given the exact response that Noctis expected and the cool air of fear that pressed goosebumps on his skin momentarily warmed.

This could be perfect. Gladio thinks wistfully.

The two of them, stood side by side, a beautiful sunset melting the day’s worries away. The fates could have it - Insomnia, the tradition of king and shields, magical battles they didn’t even understand yet. All of it, in exchange that the two of them could stay preserved in this moment, just two men, together.

A sudden gust, strengthened by the altitude brings him back to reality and a bitter realisation poisons the vision. How could Gladio possibly be worthy enough to even fantasise about standing by Noctis’ side when he couldn’t even stand on the edge of a cliff. He’s distracted by the presence of boots crunching beside him as Noctis ventures another large step forward, taking in the view.

“Don’t get so close,” Instinct has him throwing a protective hand out to halt the other man and he’s forced to lean forward slightly, a falter in his posture betraying him as Noctis stops right past the imaginary line that Gladio deemed safe.

“I’ll be fine,” Noctis’ words brush him off and he expects him to swat the hand away. Instead, he feels smooth, cool fingers slip between his own calloused ones, a thumb brushing the back of his knuckles and he can’t help but picture the confession scenes in those I-Dramas that Ignis used to secretly watch. “I’ve got you to protect me. Nothing can hurt me if you’re around.” The word ‘nothing’ is delicately punctuated by a soft squeeze of Gladio’s palm and he feels the tension ease despite himself.

“Damn straight,” he musters some grit to his voice and even manages a half-grin - albeit thrown in the direction of the rubber edging of black crownsguard boots, eyes still firmly downward. “But I can’t do much about your own stupid actions if you slip and fall.”

He senses the withheld retort; is still waiting for a riposte when Noctis gives a final supportive squeeze then drops his hand. Stepping forward he turns, placing himself between Gladio and the sweeping view beyond, heels mere inches from the lip of the cliff.

The breeze picks up again, softer and less threatening and Noctis’ jacket stirs, the air smelling like leather and brushed metal, the grounding scent of a new weapon being unsheathed. It has Gladio inhaling, thigh muscles taut from anticipation and no small dose of fear.  

The moment grows, silence stretching out and rivalling the open space beyond. It goads Gladio to raise his head, scrutinise the king whom, experience told him was staring intently at him. How he wished he could return whatever unspoken heat he knew would be shining in the azure gaze. Instead, he remains a statue of a shield, guarding no one and rooted in his own paranoia of the danger that lay a few feet from him.    

“Look at me.”

The pressure builds the second Noctis asks him, climbing through his chest and taking perch in his throat, a heavy resistance forbidding him from moving.

I can’t.

He’s not ready. It’s safer to keep his eyes on the ground, ready for if the earth suddenly drops, or the volcano finally gives way, or he slips on a rogue stone, or, or, or. There are a hundred voices telling him why he shouldn’t - couldn’t - look up to Noctis, closer to the void, and just one that says he should. One strangled voice telling him, this was Noctis. His Noct. His King, no longer a prince, even exiled as they were; and he finds his gaze moving from his own feet to the moulded insignia on the upper of Noctis’ boots. He lets out a breath, a short shuddering thing.

“Not my feet, Gladio. Look at me.” Noctis commands, a voice thick with authority.

The hundred voices reach a new pitch, alarms and warnings telling him to ignore the other man. Over two decades of conditioned duty has him curling his toes, planting his weight through his heels and finding the resolve to look up. Despite the very real and present threat, he can’t refuse anything that Noctis Lucis Caelum asks of him.

His gaze slowly rises from the ground, glued to the safety of Noct’s form, his clothing rumbled from a day of adventures, sand from the climb up the volcano still pressed into the knee of his jeans. His favourite black T-shirt hugs his chest and Gladio felt his own relax at the comforting sight of a day-worn Noct, eyes yet bright with zeal. Momentarily lost in the iridescent flecks of blue, it takes a while for Gladio to realise this is the closest he’s looked out over a cliff top anywhere.

But it’s not his victory that puts a grin on his face, but the open mouthed, eye crinkling smile that Noctis grants him.    

“You’ve got really nice eyes, do you know that?”

The comment could be a platitude, a distraction, sarcasm or irony; it didn’t matter. Whatever the motive, it was so un-Noct that it causes a flicker of honest vulnerability to skitter over Gladio’s features before he counters with the obligatory dig at Noctis’ height.

“Don’t know how you can see them all the way down there.” The warm hues of eventide betray his blush and he hurries on, a different nervousness taking over. “So why am I gazing into your eyes anyway?” Which given the choice he would happily do all day long, but ideally, not on a mountain.

“Hm…” Noctis takes his time, coy amusement in his tone. “…just wanted to see if you would.”  

“How’s my hair?” The slight upturn of the corner of his mouth, a secret smile for the two of them confirms to Gladio that making this trip was worth every anxiety ridden moment and he looks to Noctis’ hair without thought. Stubborn tufts and hunt-teased locks frame the skyline in the peripheral; it was sublimely normal, so in a word,

“A mess.”

“Thanks,” Noctis mumbles with no hint of gratitude, tilting his face up to Gladio. They both know who is in control now, and it isn’t the mountain. “Now look at the view.”

“Are you insane?” Gladio snaps as the panic floods him again, sweeping through him like the burning lava that cascades through the underground caverns beneath their feet.

“For hanging out with you idiots every day? Definitely.” Noctis doesn’t miss a beat, keeping his voice light, and Gladio knows he’s trying to keep him calm while saving his ego, but the fresh nausea coiled in his stomach tells him he doesn’t care. He’s not going to look out over the view. That is just asking for something to happen. He almost says as much. Surely Noctis would understand, that this is just a step too far for him. But he can’t. Fuck, not to Noctis of all people. What the hell kind of example is he setting his charge anyway. He should be able to do this, it’s nothing. Just looking out over the horizon.

But he can’t. He just, can’t.

“Come on Amicitia, I’m not staring at your face all night.”

Gladio has enough bravado left to mumble, “You should be so lucky,” but the words land flat with none of the typical cocksure confidence and he wishes he hadn’t bothered lest it made him seem desperate.

“You finished stalling?” Playtime was over, Gladio could hear it in the lower, softer but firm tone. He recognised it well, Noctis having picked it up himself during their training sessions. But its different from Noct. Refined with considered finesse, the younger man taking more care with Gladio’s pride than he ever did for Noctis’.

He locks his core, pulling on every ounce of mettle and takes a short shuddering inhale. Then another. The third, longer breath slows his pulse to a quiet roar and he affords himself a final glance to Noctis’ beautiful half smile, minute tilt of his head and brow raised expectantly before he looks up, over the shoulder, past the hair and beyond.

“Wow.”

The breeze sounds louder than it did just a second before. Gladio pushes the thought aside, absorbed instead in the freedom of the open space - the promise that anything could happen. The day’s sky tired as it melts into a gathering dusk of molten gold and bruised purples. He lets out a huff, not aware he’d been holding his breath as nervous energy, tendrils of fear and sheer delight breaks from him in a cracked half laugh.

“It’s…everything.”

Cool fingers skim his chest and the movement of his necklace startles him momentarily, anxiety returning until Gladio is pulled towards Noctis by necklace and expression.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself.” The pride in Noct’s words has Gladio wrapping his arms around him instinctually, feet scuffling forward to tighten the hug with no fear. Not even when his eyes drop for a second as the realisation this is the closest to the edge he’s ever been comes out in another broken laugh.

“You OK, big guy?” Noctis’ voice is deliciously muffled as he talks into Gladio’s chest, a vibration of reassurance and security and Gladio feels himself relax in earnest. He’d done it, he’d actually done it. And here he stood, on a mountainside, watching a sunset with the most precious person. He didn’t care about the rocks below, or that he’d been schooled by his student. Nor did he care about the risk of falling, or of looking like a fool. The only thing he cared about was the stunning view he could finally partake in, and the incredible man in his arms.

“I’m perfect. This is perfect.”

Beautiful and painfully destructible Gladio. Never again will he see the beauty of the sunset from this point; the long, lean stretches of oranges and pinks bleeding into one another. Nor the shadows of the buildings and landmarks in the distance, reaching across the topography towards them, silhouettes growing longer as the sun sunk deeper.

The familiar burn of resentment rises in Noctis, hatred for the landscape, now disgraced in its gloom. Gladio was his shield. He was perfect. Strong. Unyielding in his duty. And this stupid mass of stone and rubble thought it had the right to stand in his way; to make him feel weak and small.

“Gladio was the strength of us,” Ignis startles at the sound of that name from Noctis’ lips. “…and he took it all with him.” Finally, after hours of standing on the mountaintop, he heads back to the camp fire. There was nothing left for him here anymore; nor in smoky, half-forgotten memories. There was no hope left in wishing the dark of the night would swallow him and no solace to be found watching the evening, waiting.

He had his answer, screamed to him in the labour of each day. Clinging to each dense breath that stifled his lungs. A shadow lurking in the corner of each glance at the barren space in the tent, the back seat of the car, the fourth chair.  

He knew how it would end now.