Chapter Text
Sleep catches up to Prompto, like most things do. It’s a fitful rest even in the comfortable bedding, and he often startles awake, taking in the room around him until his nerves are sated.
His dreams are mere wisps, fluttering off before he can grab them by the tail. Prompto thinks he remembers a thick screen of snow, too dense to see through as it settles like ash on his skin. It must be the itch of his blisters that reel his mind back, damp and sticky beneath their gauze as he tosses and turns.
Prompto is already startling awake again when a fist gently raps at his bedroom door.
“You can come in,” Prompto answers. Trying to call loud enough to be heard through the wall sends a painful scratch down his throat, and he can only swallow around it and pray that he isn’t hit with another coughing fit.
Prompto assumed that it was Ignis remembering something he’d missed during his nursing, so when a head of raven hair peeks through the door frame, he’s surprised. Noctis looks exhausted, sagging so heavily that he’s surely lost a foot of length.
“Can I stay with you tonight?” Noctis asks, moving inside and slipping the door shut before Prompto can even reply.
“Yeah,” Prompto answers, smiling softly as Noctis settles down beside him. “Of course.”
The prince is quick to bundle himself under the sheets, curling up like a shrimp and turning to face the bed’s other inhabitant.
“Can’t sleep?” Prompto asks. It’s odd to see him fighting his exhaustion so hard, all day today and last night at the hospital. “Or did you just miss me that much?”
“Just missed you,” Noctis says. Prompto was clearly kidding, so the tearfully genuine answer sends a jolt all the way to the tips of his fingers. “We always miss you when you’re gone. Winter break sucked without you there.”
“Oh,” Prompto breathes. “Really?”
Noctis huffs incredulously at that, scooting even closer under the blankets. They’re huddled like a waxing and waning moon, just barely eclipsing around the edges. Prompto tries to ignore the way their knees tangle together and the rush that comes with it— tries really hard to ignore how wrecked he must look up close, even under the veil of darkness.
“Yeah, dude,” Noctis answers. “Iggy won’t shut up about you when you’re gone. He only ever gets that stressed out about me. I even had to send him home from the Citadel, the day he went looking for you. He was so wound up, I swear he was about to pop a blood vessel.”
That tidbit is enough to stagger Prompto, even lying down. Ignis reveres Noctis. Prompto doesn’t think he’s seen anyone look at another person the way that Ignis looks at Noctis. There aren’t enough elegant words in the Lucian dictionary to describe the weight of their relationship.
The comparison just isn’t fair.
“Seriously?” Prompto sputters. “I’d never ignore Iggy on purpose. It was— it was sweet of him. To check up on me.”
“You should tell him that. I bet he’d get all flustered,” Noctis says. The mirth in his eyes gleams brightly, even in the dark. “He wasn’t the only one who was worried, though. Even before everything blew up. You were all gloomy over text.”
“I’m sorry,” Prompto whispers. He hadn’t meant for any of them to pick up on anything, and the thought of Noctis worrying about him when he should be spending time with family sends a twist of guilt to his stomach.
“You don’t have to be sorry.” Noctis shakes his head, inching even closer until their foreheads are pressed against one another. Every point of contact feels tingly under his skin, like a gentle imitation of the biting cold. “Just talk to us. Let us help. You wouldn’t just sit back and watch if any of us were going through the same shit.”
Noctis isn’t graceful in his attempt to comfort. It doesn’t come naturally like it does for Ignis and Gladio. But as he forces the words out, harsh and insistent, Prompto knows that he really means them.
“I’ll try,” Prompto promises. As he nods, Noctis’ head is jostled against his own. He can feel the tips of the prince’s hair tickling his nose as they press back together. “Might take some getting used to, though.”
“That’s fine. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Prompto’s heart is pounding rapidly against his ribcage. It’s the fear and longing again, brutally clashing and melding until they’re indistinguishable. It’s frightening, Prompto thinks, to crave something so fiercely that your mind threatens to collapse in on itself.
Noctis isn’t a delicate person. He’s all impulse and fiery ups and downs, never one to brush off his sudden whims. He lives so painfully in the present— so focused on pushing back the fate that he’s been damned to that he can hardly see beyond what’s sitting right in front of him.
So as his eyes dart towards Prompto’s cracked lips, it really shouldn’t come as a surprise when he leans forward to soothe them with his own.
The kiss is hurried and clumsy, but it’s the only one that Prompto has ever known. He doesn't even have time to kiss back before Noctis is pulling away and turning to face the wall.
“Goodnight,” Noctis mumbles, curled so their legs remain tangled beneath the sheets.
Prompto wants to say it back, but he doesn’t think he can manage anything intelligible after that. His lips are still tingling and his eyes are blown wide, staring at the curved spine of a prince whose breathing has already evened out.
Seriously, dude? You can do that and just fall right asleep? Seriously?
A kiss is a hard thing to misconstrue. Unless Noctis was just joking around, trying to lighten the heavy mood that he’s brought on this week; Prompto really can’t fathom it being a serious gesture.
Then again, he can’t fathom any of this— his friends going to such lengths for him now that the truth is out, assuring him around every turn. Even in the daydreams he’d conjure up, he couldn’t put himself on the receiving end of such tenderness. Not without the cynical side of him chirping from his shoulder, insisting that he’s asking for too much.
Noctis may lack delicacy, but he isn’t cruel. Not even a little bit. If he kisses someone, Prompto can only assume that he means it.
It’s a daunting thing, to believe that he means it.
Prompto doesn’t manage to get much sleep after the kiss. Each time he drifts off, hoping it’ll be for at least a few hours, his mind once again jolts awake with the need to verify his surroundings.
Noctis is still sleeping like the dead beside him, his breath catching on a parched throat in an occasional snore. His feet are still tangled between Prompto’s legs, twitching every so often like he’s running from something in his dreams.
Prompto’s lips still tingle, and he doesn’t think it’s just the fissures from the cold.
By the time the sun rises and bleeds through the bedroom’s sage curtains, Prompto has given up. He wagers that he’ll be fine scraping by on such poor sleep, as they hardly have any plans beyond lounging around, and he slept plenty in the hospital to keep him sated for a while.
Too keyed up to just lie still, Prompto tries to stand and make his way towards the living room. His legs still tingle like his nerves haven’t quite gotten the memo that he’s all thawed out now, but it’s far better than the useless state of them yesterday.
Prompto quietly patters across the carpet, mindful of the sleeping prince, though he knows that Noctis could easily sleep through the clanging of pots and pans. The door creaks on its hinges as it's opened, and Prompto slinks out without a word.
He breathes a sigh of relief as the door shuts behind him. It’s easier to properly inhale now, with a wall between him and the cause of his restlessness.
Prompto stumbles towards the bathroom and tries to forget about the kiss. He finds a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, steals a dollop of toothpaste, and tries to forget about the kiss. He ignores his reflection in the mirror, averting his eyes to the plush rug beneath his feet, and tries to forget about the kiss.
It isn’t effective. His mind reels back to it regardless, sifting through dozens of possible explanations that degrade in sense as they go on.
Maybe he was half asleep and thought that I was Iggy. Maybe I had some leftover congee on my lip. Maybe he feels really, really bad for me.
Nothing clicks. Prompto goes through the rest of his routine mindlessly, enjoying the smooth glide of an unfamiliar moisturizer on his parched skin and heading back out when his legs begin to shake in warning under his weight.
“You’re up early,” a voice calls from the living room, startling Prompto in the otherwise quiet apartment. His breath leaves him in a rush as he grips the edge of the doorframe, praying his knees don’t buckle and send him to the floor.
Gladio, a bloodhound for the scent of struggle, hops up from the couch before Prompto can even begin to ask for help. There’s a hand on his waist again, nearly spanning the length of it, and he’s herded gently towards the couch.
“Sorry,” Prompto mumbles, jostled as the cushions sink beneath their combined weight. “Morning, big guy.”
“Couldn’t sleep in?” The shield asks, making himself comfortable. He’s got an arm tossed around the back of the sofa again, and Prompto holds himself upright to avoid leaning his head on it.
“Not really one for sleeping in,” Prompto says. “I’m used to early mornings.”
He doesn’t mention the real reason that he couldn’t sleep, but he feels the weight of it in the room regardless, almost like it’s something tangible. There’s no way that Gladio could’ve heard about their kiss, but still, Prompto’s skin itches with unreasonable guilt.
“Early shifts, then?” Gladio asks, clearly oblivious to the babbling stream of Prompto’s thoughts. “I like ‘em, too. Everything is so quiet this early in the morning. Doesn’t feel like you have to worry about anything until the rest of the world wakes up.”
“Yeah.” Prompto nods. Even with how often he’s witnessed it, this mild side of Gladio is a pleasant surprise each time he catches a glimpse. “I usually jog around this time. It’s been too snowy this week, but I still wake up for it.”
“We should go together,” Gladio says. Prompto is gearing up to remind Gladio of the pathetic state he’s in, but the shield barrels on. “Once you’re better. And once the snow melts.”
“Right. That sounds nice,” Prompto agrees, finally giving in and leaning back on the sofa. It really does sound nice, running with someone else to keep him company. Normally, the only thing to cut the silence is a barrage of his own unkind thoughts. “I might lag behind for a while.”
Gladio does a soft imitation of his usual hair ruffle, letting his hand settle on Prompto’s shoulder after disrupting his already tangled bedhead.
“I don’t mind,” he says. “Running isn’t my favorite, anyways. You’d make it far more tolerable.”
There’s that gentle touch again. And that tone he’s been using, like he’s sure that Prompto will shatter if he talks too loud or jostles him too roughly. Handling him like he’s something important.
What’s with the three of them lately? Did I miss something while I was knocked out? Am I the punchline in some private joke they’ve all been making?
Gladio just smiles. He doesn’t look like he’s hiding some big secret, amused as the gears turn uselessly in Prompto’s head. There’s no glint of malice in his eyes.
“Well, if you don’t mind. That sounds fun,” Prompto says. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Bet I could even outrun you in my prime.”
“Oh, sure,” Gladio huffs. Prompto is glad that his proffered challenge lightened the mood, as the shield immediately jumps for the bait and slips into his usual tenor. “Maybe after Iggy’s nursing. I doubt you’ve even seen your true prime.”
“He’s never gonna let me leave, is he?”
Gladio laughs, and the rumble is deep enough to reverberate through Prompto’s frame. There’s a waft of some woody aftershave as he adjusts, thick and intoxicating.
“Doubt it,” he answers. “Good luck shaking him off.”
“I don't know,” Prompto says. He tries for an easy smile, letting his cracked lips pull uncomfortably taut. “Maybe I don’t want to shake him off. Don’t tell him I said that, though. He might really lock me up.”
They don’t chat alone for long, as Ignis heads out to greet them shortly after an alarm sounds from his bedroom. He mumbles apologies for waking up so late, looking far less haggard than he did yesterday.
Prompto knows better than to converse extensively with Ignis before he’s had his coffee, so they all wait quietly as the espresso machine crackles and sputters out a dark shot. Ignis has a clear routine, cleaning up after himself as he works and starting the next pull as soon as he fills his own mug.
The latte that he hands to Prompto smells divine, soothing his chilled hands through the thick ceramic. He didn’t even have to ask for his preferred milk; Ignis already rifled through the fridge, in tune to Prompto’s proclivities as if they were his own.
Morning drags on, insistent on sticking around as they delay the inevitable forceful waking of the prince. Prompto finds that he doesn’t mind sitting idle for once; if Ignis and Gladio are comfortable, busy as they always are, Prompto doesn’t have room to complain.
When Gladio eventually jostles Noctis awake, Prompto is worried. He’s been sufficiently distracted until now, avoiding the aftermath of their kiss that’ll surely irrevocably change things between them.
But Noctis doesn’t look disgusted when he sees Prompto. He doesn’t look like he’s scarred by the memory, or embarrassed that he made such a grave mistake in a half-asleep state.
He simply stumbles over, claiming his perpetual spot at Prompto’s side and nestling in to savor the last bit of shut eye that he can manage. There’s no mention of the night before, even as Prompto goes rigid at the contact.
“You okay?” Noctis asks. “You seem tense.”
“Yup!” Prompto answers, stiff as a board. “Just uh— What are your plans for today?”
“Hmph,” Noctis huffs, petulant and leaning closer until Prompto has no choice but to relax beneath him. “Dunno. Up to you. Solstice is tonight, though.”
“Shit, that’s tonight?!” Prompto startles, sitting up and wincing as his muscles protest the swift movement. “I totally blanked! You’re supposed to be back at the Citadel!”
“Nope,” Noctis answers, shaking his head and pulling Prompto back down. “Already called my dad. We’re staying here. I always hate doing that stupid TV segment, anyways.”
“Dude,” Prompto argues, his voice high and crackly. “I’ll be no fun tonight. You guys should really go back and celebrate. I’ll be fine here!”
Noctis just glares, crabby and defiant and clearly nowhere close to being swayed. It’s a null effort, trying to change his mind about anything after he’s just woken up.
“Tiramisu or shortcake?” Ignis asks, interrupting from the kitchen and pretending that he hasn’t been eavesdropping. Prompto knows he’s been listening. “I’m leaning towards the tiramisu.”
“Of course you would be leaning towards that shit,” Noctis answers, letting a dramatic shiver roll through him. “No coffee desserts. Blegh.”
“Once again, I wasn’t asking you,” Ignis bites back. “I’m making something else you’ll like, anyways. Prompto? Gladio? Any preferences?”
“Iggy, c’mon! You can’t sway me with sweets!” Prompto barrels on. Noctis has given up the fight beside him, clearly satisfied that his advisor is making him something special. “You shouldn’t be cooped up here tonight. I can survive for a few hours, at least.”
“That’s exactly where you’re mistaken, Prompto,” Ignis corrects, pointing dangerously in Prompto’s direction with an egg-coated spatula. “We’d be cooped up at the Citadel, sweating in our stuffy suits and schmoozing with council members that are old enough to fart dust. Not while we spend the holiday with our dear friend, whom we’ve missed for weeks now.”
Gladio snorts from the other side of the couch, nose deep in a book that he obviously hasn’t been paying attention to during the span of their conversation.
“Prom, those parties suck,” Noctis says, gently jostling his friend by the arm. “We’re not missing out on anything, I swear.”
Maybe it isn’t so hard to believe that they’d rather be here. Noctis does constantly complain about his princely duties, hating the rigid conversations that he’s forced into having with bourgeois strangers who don’t hesitate to express their unwanted opinions. And it’s not like Ignis and Gladio can let loose at those events; they’ll really be working a shift, forced to keep a keen eye on the guests that badger Noctis all night.
“Okay,” Prompto says, once again giving in to the whims of his companions. “Don’t hold back on my account, though. I’m good with whatever”
“So,” Ignis chimes. He sounds sickeningly satisfied. “Tiramisu or shortcake?”
Ignis and Gladio leave in the afternoon to run some errands around town, but not before they’re certain that Noctis and Prompto have a full list of medical scenarios that are worthy of a call for help. Prompto tries to placate their worries before they go, insisting that he really feels alright today.
And he does, for the most part. The meals that Ignis has been shoveling his way have energized him, and his cough isn’t as sharp as it was yesterday. He still feels that tingling itch in his limbs, but they’re much easier to control today. And while his blisters still sting, the pain medication has muted it into something bearable.
Being alone with Noctis for half of the day is a daunting prospect, but the prince doesn’t seem keen to bring up the kiss himself. Prompto is almost convinced that Noctis forgot about the incident entirely, but that thought hits him with a wave of hurt that overwrites the relief.
Prompto won’t be the one to bring it up. He’s content to follow Noctis’ whims, letting him shuffle through movies and video games to pass the time until their companions return. Prompto can’t hold a controller with the current state of his hands, but he’s always happy to cheer from the sidelines or goad when Noctis gets his own character killed.
He isn’t acting strange as far as Prompto can tell. Maybe he’s clingier, but that’s been a habit of his, even before the kiss or the flood. After a few hours of skirting around the catoblepas in the room, Prompto is prepared to believe that he merely hallucinated the whole incident.
They’re halfway into a trashy film when Noctis finally brings it up. He’s lounging like an oversized cat, his head resting in Prompto’s lap as he stares with an unfocused gaze at the flashing screen.
“Sorry about last night,” he mumbles, just loud enough to be heard over the television speakers. “Guess I should’ve asked you first.”
“Huh?” Prompto answers, tensing up in preparation for the blow. This is where Noctis will explain the punchline, because clearly Prompto isn’t picking up on the joke. “No, uh— it’s fine! I figured you were half asleep or something. Don’t worry about it, dude. Happens to the best of us.”
What the fuck am I saying? Happens to the best of us?
Noctis whirls around, rolling over so he’s looking up at Prompto.
“It wasn’t an accident,” Noctis says, eyes wide and imploring. “I wanted to kiss you. I just should’ve asked you first.”
“Oh.”
“Is that okay?”
Noctis looks so sincere, in his usual frustrated and flustered manner. Prompto wonders how he doesn’t have a permanent crease between his brows, furrowed as they are whenever he fully devotes his attention to something.
“Yeah,” Prompto answers. The air is so charged, he really ought to look away. He’d probably agree to anything like this. “Yeah, it’s okay with me. I just didn’t— I didn’t think you really meant it.”
Noctis is fully scowling now, like he’s working through some indecipherable calculus equation in his head. Prompto wants to make a joke, but he’s sure that his own scarlet blistered cheeks are incomparably laughable.
“Why would I kiss you if I didn’t mean it?” Noctis asks.
“Well,” Prompto starts, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t know. If you, like— thought that I was Iggy or something.”
Shit. That’s the worst answer. Could’ve picked anything else— why would I fucking say that?
Noctis’ eyes widen as he processes. It doesn’t take him long; Prompto flinches as the laugh tumbles out of him, rich and eye-watering.
“Dude,” Noctis manages, swallowing down the rest of his furious giggling. “If I wanted to kiss Specs, I’d just go kiss Specs. It’s not like he minds. You could go do it too, if you want.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry,” Noctis says, his lips wobbling as his amusement abates. “Not helping, huh? I did mean it, though. I wanted to kiss you. Sorry for not asking first. And for falling asleep.”
Prompto doesn’t even know where to begin. He didn’t think he’d be leaving this talk with even more questions than when it started, but here they are, having what feels like two completely different conversations.
“It’s okay,” Prompto says. Noctis is still smiling up at him, and it turns more soft than amused as he settles down. “I was just confused.”
“Glad we cleared that up, then.” Noctis looks pleased, letting his eyes flutter shut.
Nothing is cleared up, Prompto wants to say. Are you going to do it again? What do you mean I can just go kiss Ignis? Am I not supposed to feel guilty for wanting to kiss all three of you?
He doesn’t voice any of his questions. Prompto doesn’t think he’d ever be able to stop if he really started, and anyways— he thinks he understands.
There aren’t a lot of other conclusions to reach when he boils it down, but the thought is so unfathomable, he’s been veering away from it anytime his mind merely graced the edges.
There’s no way they’re all interested in him. Not like that.
By the time that Ignis and Gladio make it back, it’s late enough in the afternoon for Noctis to succumb to the call of a nap. He’s still snuggled peacefully in Prompto’s lap, his head nestled into his friend’s stomach and his hands fisted into the sofa cushions.
Prompto wants to relax, but he’s been wired for hours. He’s sure that he can’t be a comfortable pillow to rest on, tense as he is, but Noctis doesn’t seem to mind at all.
“Want me to move him?” Gladio asks, slipping the door shut behind them and carting an armful of paper bags to set on the kitchen counter. Ignis carries in his own haul, heaving a sigh as he sets everything down.
“No, he’s fine,” Prompto answers, glancing down at Noctis. The prince’s eyelashes are fanned elegantly across his cheeks, fluttering lightly as they converse around him. “Unless you guys let me help out with the groceries.”
They both call out their adamant refusals at the same time, ignoring his huffed protest and skirting around the kitchen to unpack the bags. Prompto doesn’t bother arguing when he’s clearly outnumbered.
It’s relaxing to listen to them work. He can’t really see what they’re doing from the couch, but the sounds of the creaking floorboards and their quiet mumbles are mollifying. Prompto almost worries that he’ll fall asleep to the rhythm of it, so he busies himself with untangling the sleep tousled knots in Noctis’ hair.
The air eventually takes on a sweet scent, thick enough to linger in the back of Prompto’s throat. The sound of laughter that drifts from the kitchen is even sweeter, though.
Time passes unapologetically and things slowly shift in the apartment as the hours tick by. Prompto is dazed for most of the afternoon, sipping a warm blend of tea leaves and honey that Ignis steeped for him and watching his friends dress up the living room for the Solstice.
When Noctis grumbles awake, he doesn’t seem eager to move. Maybe he doesn’t want to leave Prompto alone, banished to watch from the couch as Gladio strings dried oranges and sticks of cinnamon onto the evergreen bough over the mantle. Or maybe he just needs time to blink the sleep from his eyes.
Ignis spared no expense this afternoon. Each time they bustle in from the kitchen, there’s a new handful of traditional decor, all nestled carefully into the nooks and crannies around the apartment. Gladio has an eye for placement, Prompto thinks, watching him angle a candelabra on the coffee table until he’s satisfied.
“You’re pretty good at this stuff,” Prompto notes, relishing the grin that Gladio sends back to him.
“Iris and I always decorate together,” he says. Gladio is holding the stems of several brass candlesticks between his fingers and eyeing the shelves for an empty space to put them. “She’s so damn picky about everything. Guess she trained me well.”
Prompto huffs a laugh at the image— a feisty Iris, scolding a towering Gladio with a pointed finger over a sprig of mistletoe in the wrong door frame.
“Will she be okay tonight?” Prompto asks. The guilt is there again, softened by the comfortable atmosphere but present nonetheless. “I hope you guys didn’t have firm plans or anything.”
“Nah, she’s good,” he answers, snuffing out the remorse. “She loves those parties at the Citadel. Iris is still young enough for all the council assholes to fawn over her. And we’ll do something later this month for Mom’s anniversary.”
Prompto remembers the vague snippets he’s heard about Gladio’s mother. The shield isn’t tight-lipped about it, he’s just always been reserved about the things that are really important to him. Or maybe it’s because it’s been so many years since she passed, and the wound has receded to raised scar tissue these days.
“We should still give her a call tonight,” Prompto says, smiling softly as Gladio melts the bottom of a candle with a lighter. He presses it delicately into the base of the candlestick, holding it steady until the wax solidifies. “I bet she’d love to hear from Noct.”
“Ugh,” Noctis groans beside him, finishing a round of King’s Knight and pocketing his phone. “Tell her I have my hands full with the three of you.”
Prompto coughs, trying to muffle his reaction and cursing himself when it turns into another fit. His lungs ache with the movement, still tacky with the residual fluid that he hasn’t managed to hack up yet.
How can he just say shit like that?
At least he can blame his blush on the blood running to his head from the effort. No one else seems phased by the comment at all, still busying themselves with whatever they were doing before.
Have I seriously been this dense the whole time?
Prompto isn’t familiar with many Solstice traditions.
Even when his parents did manage to come home for the holiday, they hardly put forth any effort to make the day feel special. Maybe they’d stay up with some candles lit, waiting for the long night to pass in a slow crest of sunlight, but there wasn’t much beyond that.
And during the years he spent alone, staying awake to watch the birth of a new sun on his own, he was exceedingly grateful for the television special at the Citadel.
Nothing in his own sad catalog of memories can compare to tonight’s getup.
Ignis has prepared a sickening amount of dishes, and he’s been inching them out slowly as the hours slip by. Prompto is still supposed to be taking it slow with his meals, but Ignis wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t take that into account with every sample that he serves them.
There’s a fruit soup to warm his stomach, rich with dried apricots that burst in his mouth as he chews. The cider they sip on fills the apartment with the scent of cinnamon, still simmering quietly on the stove until they’re ready for another mug. There’s a savory stew to follow the sweets, filled with hearty root vegetables and broth that soothes the cracks in his throat as he swallows. Ignis even roasted the seeds for their greedy fingers to nab from a dish on the coffee table.
“This is like— medicine disguised as dinner,” Prompto jibes, eyeing Ignis on the other end of the sofa. The advisor is finally curled up, enjoying his own bowl with the rest of them while their dessert cools in the fridge. “You can’t fool me, Igster.”
“My plan is foiled,” he answers dryly. “How dreadful.”
Noctis grins into his own dish; he evidently wouldn’t be hungry for the mix of vegetables that the rest of them are eating, contentedly forking his specially made dinner of roasted trout and potatoes.
The apartment is so warm around them. There’s no traditional log to burn in Ignis’ electric fireplace, but they let it crackle anyways, filling the room with warm light and sparring with the leftover chill still tingling in Prompto’s fingertips.
Winter days are always short, leaving the world to fumble around in the dark for the better part of the evening. Prompto doesn’t mind the absent sun now, watching their shadows dance on the wall against the candlelight like ancient cave paintings. They don’t watch the clock as the night drags on, content to measure the passing time in pools of wax that build up beneath the candelabras.
He’s never had a Solstice so rich with laughter and trickling conversation. Even the silence feels rich, as each of them curl closer under the quilt that Ignis dragged to the sofa for them to share.
It’s a tight fit as they tangle up like a cat’s cradle on the leather couch, but no one seems to mind. Noctis makes it easier to squeeze, throwing his limbs every which way until a part of him is sprawled on all three of them.
The unspoken things dangle above them like silk as they chatter on about anything and everything else. No one mentions the day before or the confessions that Prompto made in the sterile hospital room, but Prompto doesn’t think it’s mere avoidance this time. There’s no uncomfortable laughter when they brush around it. The dust of truth has settled, and they’re all still here, pressing into each other like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.
“Time for dessert?” Ignis asks eventually, standing up and tucking his portion of the quilt over Noctis’ feet.
Prompto springs up too, trying to slide his legs out from under the blanket without stripping it from Gladio and Noctis beside him.
“I’ll help,” he says, and for once, Ignis doesn’t protest.
His legs are far sturdier today, and he waves off the offer that Gladio makes to walk him to the kitchen. The pins-and-needles haven’t fully abated, but Prompto doesn’t mind the sting after spending so long lazing around.
“So which one did you pick?” Prompto asks, peering over Ignis’ shoulder on the tips of his toes as the advisor rifles through the fridge. “Tiramisu or shortcake?”
Ignis pulls two domed dishes from the fridge.
“I should’ve guessed,” Prompto says. “No way you’d make just one.”
Ignis turns around and pulls another two dishes from the fridge.
“Dude,” Prompto snickers, making room on the counter for all four desserts. “There’s gotta be a limit. No wonder you were cooped up in here all day.”
“I don’t mind,” the advisor defends, sounding slightly bashful. “And we’ll have leftovers.”
“Yeah, ‘til the next Solstice.”
Prompto helps pull the opaque domes off, setting the glass carefully on the counter behind them. Each revealed dessert is mouth-watering, and Ignis looks humbly pleased with the appearance of them.
There’s the tiramisu, the top dusted in an adorable rising sun of cocoa powder. Prompto smiles imagining Ignis delicately cutting the stencil with his brow furrowed in concentration. The shortcake is no less elaborate, and the pastries on the plate next to it look achingly familiar.
“Those for Noct?” Prompto asks, his smile widening at the memory of Noctis offering him a bite of the same treat during one of their lunch breaks.
“There’s enough to share,” Ignis answers, fetching two knives from the block by the sink. “We’ll see if I got them right this time.”
“They look pretty good to me.”
Prompto is on shortcake duty, slicing four thin pieces and praying that his blistered hands can hold a steady grip on the knife. They make sampler platters, spooning out the tiramisu—save the plate for Noctis, sans coffee— and placing the pastries on the edge.
The fourth dessert is a little heart wrenching. Prompto has seen the Yule log cake that they serve at the Citadel every year, and he always wondered what it might taste like. Ignis must’ve taken his time on the decorations, piping thin lines of frosting to imitate the peeling bark of a real Yule log.
Ignis is the one to slice that cake, revealing the swirl of cream and chocolate in the center like the rings of a fallen tree.
“Ready?” Ignis asks, plating the last slice.
Prompto nods, pushing himself up from his lean over the counter and willing his knees not to buckle. They both carry two plates back, handing them off before settling into their previous spots on the sofa.
Noctis looked sleepy before, but the sight of the pastry perks him up right away. Prompto also made sure that his slice of shortcake was a little thicker to make up for his missing fourth dessert.
No one digs in yet. Noctis must know what they’re waiting for, because he grabs the pastry from his plate to inspect before nibbling at the corner. Ignis is waiting patiently beside him with a hopeful glint in his eyes.
“Not quite,” Noctis mumbles, but he still dives in for another bite. “Too flakey. And something’s still missing.”
Ignis doesn’t deflate at the honest critique. Instead, he grins, nodding like he expected it. Prompto can almost hear the gears turning between his ears as he plans his next attempt to inch closer to the pastry that Noctis remembers.
Prompto tries it for himself, then, following suit as Gladio digs in beside him. The buttery layers of pastry practically evaporate on his tongue before he can chew.
“Ignis, I could kiss you,” Prompto moans around his next bite, finally making it to the tart fruit preserves in the center.
Shit.
He realizes his poor choice of words as soon as they’re spoken, and all of the blood rushes to his head. It takes real effort to swallow around the lead weight of his tongue, praying that he doesn’t choke— or maybe praying that he does, if it’ll overwrite all of the other shit that comes out of his mouth without his consent.
Prompto glances over to Noctis to gauge his reaction, hoping there are no traces of anger on his face.
Noctis is just grinning.
“You could,” Ignis answers.
“Huh?”
“If you wanted to,” he adds, nonplussed. “You could kiss me.”
Prompto glances around the sofa. He tries to muster up a laugh to brush it off. No one else is laughing with him. Noctis is still grinning behind his pastry, so indiscreet that he really shouldn’t bother trying to hide it at all. Gladio’s eyes are glistening with mirth, fixed on the plate of desserts that he’s pretending to be enraptured by.
“Guys,” Prompto nearly whines, wincing at the wrecked crackle of his voice. “You gotta stop.”
“Stop what?” Ignis asks. He sounds so smug, Prompto is positive that he’s completely aware of what he’s doing.
“Joking around like that,” he answers, placing the half-eaten pastry back on his plate, too jittery to stomach another bite. “You’re all— just. Look, I get it, it’s funny. Very funny. But you gotta stop.”
Prompto has to be careful with his words. He feels like he’s peering over the edge of a crag, each fumbled utterance shifting the loose stones beneath his feet, ready to collapse under his weight at any minute. There’s no easy way to explain how unfunny he finds this situation— not without exposing his own feelings in turn.
“Sorry, Prom,” Noctis butts in, his grin subsiding slightly. “I don’t think he’s kidding, though.”
Once again, Noctis’ elusive behavior is too baffling to wrap his head around. Prompto still doesn’t fully understand what happened between them the night before, and now Noctis looks pleased to offer someone else up?
Prompto chances a glance towards Ignis, hoping to find some of the clarity that the advisor usually offers him.
There’s no clarity there. At least, not the kind that Prompto was hoping for— a soft smile like he’s in on the joke, but ready to drop it if Prompto insists that he’s had enough.
Ignis is flushed. He doesn’t look so smug anymore. Prompto knows that his own cheeks could rival the advisor’s, but still— he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ignis so twitchy, his thoughts entirely transparent.
“So,” Prompto starts, quieter than the pounding in his chest. “I could, then? If I wanted to?”
Noctis leans further into the couch cushions between them, making himself scarce. It’s easy to forget any of his former reasoning to keep his guard up, staring as Ignis parts his lips in a half-formed answer. The advisor settles on a nod instead.
Prompto isn’t a confident guy. He knows how to laugh around his insecurities, dressing them up and plating them neatly like they’re somehow stomachable. He knows how to divert the attention from himself when it turns scathing against his skin.
He doesn’t really know how to kiss someone; that’s the antithesis of everything else he’s mastered the art of.
For once, Ignis seems to be at a loss for words. He keeps glancing between the three of them like he’s sorting through a puzzle, stumped on a piece at the edge.
When Prompto turns to Noctis, knowing he’s unlikely to find any real answers there, the prince just smiles. There’s no trace of resentment in his eyes. Instead, they’re filled to the brim with an unfettered, exasperated affection.
Okay. We’re really doing this, then.
His brief kiss with Noctis didn’t prepare him for anything else. He has to shuffle closer on the sofa, clutching his plate in one hand and wincing as his blisters are pulled. Prompto is sure he looks flighty, ready to bolt as their noses brush.
Still, he presses on.
Ignis’ lips are soft against the cracks of his own. Prompto doubts that it feels as pleasant on the other end, but Ignis exhales heavily at the brush of contact like he’s been holding his breath. When Prompto pulls back an inch to wet his lips, they taste like apple cider.
Kissing is mostly intuitive, Prompto realizes. And he thinks that Ignis has probably done this before— or many times before, he amends, leaning into the hand winding behind his head and gently carding through his tangled hair.
It should feel awkward with an audience. They’re practically kissing in Noctis’ face, leaning over him unapologetically, too lost in the repetitive movements to pay him any mind.
Noctis isn’t complaining. Neither is Gladio, nestled on Prompto’s other side with an arm strewn around the sofa, his hand occasionally brushing against Prompto’s shoulder.
It feels like they’re supposed to be here, watching contentedly. A set of fingers slide against his knee, gripping at the loose fabric, and Prompto knows that it’s Noctis. They’re not spindly enough to belong to Ignis.
When they finally part on a syncopated inhale, Prompto isn’t sure how much time has passed. His lips are tingling with the burn of cinnamon.
“Told you so,” Noctis says, cutting through the silence. Prompto turns to him, expecting to find that same smug grin from before.
The prince’s pupils are blown wide.
“Noct,” Ignis tries to chide, but he sounds too breathless to mean it. Prompto smirks at the sound of the frazzled advisor, working around his own tired lungs and cursing the way they rattle.
Noctis huffs, wasting no time in acting on his own whims. The hand that pulls on Prompto’s collar is gentle but insistent, and he doesn’t think he’d choose to do anything but follow.
Can a guy take a second to breathe? No?
The prince doesn’t offer the same gentleness with his lips, and it isn’t like the ghost of contact that they shared last night. He kisses like he fights, reckless and hurried as if he knows instinctively that someone else will have his back.
Someone does, thankfully. Gladio takes the dessert plate still gripped in Prompto’s shaking hand, leaning to set it on the coffee table before he can spill it all over the quilt.
“Hey, careful,” the shield says, and Noctis pulls back at the sound. “He’s fresh out of the hospital, Prince Charmless. Keep it in your pants.”
Noctis grumbles, but he complies, leaning back to let the cushions swallow him. Prompto feels dazed, stuck hovering in place as the world comes into focus around him.
“Does that clear things up?” Noctis asks. He doesn’t seem phased, licking his lips like he might be able to chase whatever Prompto left behind.
“Not really,” Prompto squeaks, eyes fixed on the movement. “Um—”
“We like you, dumbass.”
“We?” Prompto echoes stupidly.
“Yes, we,” Noctis confirms. Prompto glances at the other two, who make no move to deny the claim. At least Ignis still looks a little dazed. “Need Gladio to kiss you too?”
“No! I— I think I get it.”
“Oh, I see how it is,” Gladio huffs, and Prompto is about to rush in to explain himself— to embarrassingly blurt out that he’d really like to kiss Gladio, too— but the shield just laughs. The arm behind the sofa makes its way around Prompto’s shoulders, tugging him down from his awkward upright position and into the comfort of a steely chest. “Kidding, blondie. Some of us can exercise restraint.”
“So,” Prompto pauses, swallowing around the tickle in his throat. It doesn’t abate, and he has no choice but to cough into his elbow, wet and violent until it subsides and leaves his lungs throbbing. He can feel someone working a firm hand against his back, but his head is too hazy to guess whose it is. “Sorry. It’s just— a lot. I don’t really know what I’m doing here.”
“You think we do?” Noctis asks, and it’s like a gentle slap to his senses. When he looks a little closer, Noctis does look nervous. He should’ve noticed before; Noctis is always snappish when he’s nervous. Like a cat, Prompto thinks .
Even the ever composed Ignis loses his cool around them, and seems almost shy when they shine a light on his affections. It isn’t a side that he’s seen from the advisor in any other setting.
Maybe he isn’t out of his depth. Or maybe they’re just drowning in it together; Prompto doesn’t hate that idea as much as he should.
Things somehow trickle back to normal as the Solstice drags on. There isn’t a lingering awkwardness like Prompto thought there might be. They’re treating him the same as they do any other day, just without the abiding tension or careful guard around their affections.
Maybe that’s what Prompto was so afraid of, convincing himself that he didn’t notice the blatant signs so that things wouldn’t change. He didn’t want to gas the easy air around them with nerves, ruining the only place where he feels truly comfortable.
Noctis is still petulant, picking pointless arguments as if he isn’t stickily clinging to at least one of them at any given time. Ignis is patient through it all, pretending that he doesn’t enjoy the snark with half-hearted scolding that Prompto can see through like a thin slate of glass.
Gladio might be the most openly changed, but not in a bad way. It’s like he’s finally allowing himself to be soft, too pleasantly buzzed on the developments between them to mask it. Prompto finds that he really likes this side of the shield.
The Solstice always seems to fill the air with vigor. Even after his poor sleep last night, Prompto feels wide awake, picking at the snacks on the table and watching the candles shrink into stout mounds of wax.
They pass the time with card games, arranging themselves into their usual teams for Spades— Ignis and Noctis facing Gladio and Prompto. Noctis is as piss-poor at the game as he always is, leading his team to bust with high bets that overestimate his hand of cards.
Gladio and Prompto don’t stray from their winning streak. Even against the advisor’s subtle cheats— slipping the aces and jokers into specific spots in the deck before he deals— they win by a landslide. It doesn’t matter if Noctis is given a flawless hand; he still blows it in the end.
“We should open gifts before the sun is up,” Noctis says, pouting after the humiliation of their last round. “You grabbed them from my apartment today, right Specs?”
Prompto goes a little pale, slouching back from the coffee table. He did pick out gifts for them before the flood. He even set aside a bit of money each month, dispersing his purchases long before the holiday so it wouldn’t decimate a single paycheck.
He saw the state of their gifts in the bottom of his closet. The retro console that he found for Noctis was doomed from the first drip, and he doubts any of his own tinkering could fix it. The antique set of novels that he bought for Gladio were completely waterlogged, their leather spines straining under the soaked and expanded pages.
The driving gloves that he bought for Ignis may be salvageable, but Prompto didn’t tuck them in his duffel bag. The fabric is surely acrid by now, stubbornly holding on to the scent of rot. It would be an embarrassing gift to give, even if he managed to get them dry cleaned.
Of course the cards were ruined. Maybe that’s for the best, Prompto thinks, recalling the bleeding ink that made it look like he wept while writing his thoughts about the three of them. All of his sappy words were turned into indecipherable globs, a casualty in the flood amongst countless others.
Prompto wants to speak up, but his chest is constricting. He really hopes they didn’t buy him anything, as he doubts he’ll be able to just grin and take it.
“Prompto?” Ignis’ gentle voice cuts through the barrage, and Prompto finally looks up. They must’ve been talking on without him, eventually noting his withdrawal. “Are you alright?”
“Sorry,” Prompto answers, sobering up as they all stare in his direction. “I didn’t— I don’t have anything. To give to you guys.”
“We’re not asking for anything,” Gladio answers easily. “Besides, it’s not like you were planning to spend the Solstice with us. I don’t think you were up for any last minute online shopping in the hospital, either.”
“It’s a blessing in disguise,” Noctis chirps, grinning as he trails behind Ignis to fetch the bags stowed away in the closet. “Prompto one-ups me every fucking year. His gifts are always so mushy.”
“I still got you guys gifts!” Prompto defends, though no one was berating him in the first place. “It just— didn’t make it with the flood. I checked when I was going through my closet.”
“It’s fine, dude,” Noctis says, helping Ignis cart the paper bags back over to the coffee table. “It’s just stuff. We’d rather have you here, anyways. The rest of it isn’t important.”
Noctis’ tone is the closest he’ll ever get to affectionate. Even through the barbs, Prompto smiles at his effort.
“Do you think I still have to pay my gas bill?” Prompto blurts, entirely out of left field.
“Pardon?”
Ignis sounds personally affronted, his hands stilling where they’re sorting through the presents.
“If I’m like— not able to live there right now, they probably won’t add any more late fees, right? If so, I’ve got a bit saved up from the overtime I worked last week. Your presents are gonna be late, but they’re coming! I swear!”
“Dude, how long has your gas been shut off?” Noctis asks, incredulous.
“Oh, uh… A few weeks now? I don’t know. I was gonna cover it with my next paycheck.”
All three of them look bewildered. Prompto defaults to what he knows best, laughing nervously and avoiding their wide eyes. It was supposed to be a good thing. He never has spare change for little things like this. He can probably replace most of the stuff he got them, or find something similar enough.
“When was the last time you had a hot shower?” Ignis asks.
This is not where he was trying to go with his declaration. There’s no need for them to worry after the fact. And it’s not like it matters now, after everything else they’ve put up with this week. A cold shower doesn’t even come close.
“Guys, c’mon. It’s not a big deal! You kinda get used to it, and it always wakes me up in the morning.”
Ignis blanches like he’s under the icy spray himself.
Wrong thing to say. Again.
“Hot shower. After presents,” Gladio orders. “Actually, Iggy’s got a tub. Hot bath, after presents.”
Prompto knows he’s sporting an embarrassing blush by now. They don’t have to react so strongly to everything he reveals about his life. He’s survived this far, after all, making the most of what he’s got. And they’ve done enough for him, already.
Still, a hot bath sounds irresistible. His hair feels flat and grimy, and he can still smell the hospital residue when he moves around and gets a whiff of himself. Prompto even has the gall to feel sheepish about it now, after subjecting his friends to it all day without thinking.
“Okay,” he agrees, already feeling giddy at the prospect. “After the sun comes up.”
Sometimes, when they’re lazing around and lost in conversation, Prompto forgets that his friends are rich. Well, at least Noctis is loaded— Prompto doesn’t really know what the salary is like for royal advisors and shields, and he has a feeling it’d be a sore bruise to poke if he ever asked them about it directly. He’s well aware that Ignis and Gladio aren’t in it for the money.
As they open their Solstice gifts, the differences between their lifestyles are glaring.
It isn’t like his friends are bathed in opulence. Prompto knows that Noctis doesn’t care for fancy things, or overindulging beyond the items that he needs. He has his niche interests, but beyond those, he isn’t one to waste his money on things that he won’t use.
The quality of the items are the real kicker. Prompto can tell that each gift has a mountain of thought behind it, whether it’s a pack of socks for Noctis with a more luxurious fabric than any piece of clothing he’s ever owned, or a glinting set of knives with personalized etching on the handles for the advisor himself.
They haven’t given him anything yet. Ignis says they should wait until the end to give Prompto his gifts, and after watching their sweet exchanges, he’s a live wire of nerves.
Noctis must be trying to ease him into things; the first thing that Prompto unwraps is a pack of chocobo boxers, and he will admit, it relaxes him to laugh freely with them. When it’s followed by the deluxe edition of a new game they’ve been eyeing, he’s still too giddy to feel ashamed.
Gladio is as thoughtful as he always is with his gifts. Prompto practically throws himself at the shield after flipping through the wildlife photobook from one of his favorite artists, documenting the different landscapes outside of Insomnia.
He doesn’t think he’s equipped to handle whatever is in the neatly wrapped box that Ignis hands him, adorned with a deep red ribbon and a tag with the advisor’s handwriting on it.
‘To new beginnings,’ is written in his elegant swoops of cursive, too pretty to rip apart. Prompto unties it as delicately as he can, wincing as his weathered hands shake anytime he attempts something too dexterous.
Ignis helps him in the end, pulling apart the bow and setting the card aside like he knows that Prompto meant to keep it.
It’s still hard to rip through the paper, but Prompto manages. When he lifts the lid off of the box, he pauses, staring for a long moment at the revealed contents.
His heart is harsh as a woodpecker against his ribs.
“This is…” Prompto gulps, glancing towards the advisor in an attempt to ground himself. Ignis is smiling nervously, like he’s somehow afraid this won’t go over well.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t save your old one,” he says. “But turn it on. Look through the gallery.”
Prompto does as he’s told, gingerly picking up the camera and trying to hold it steady in his palms. It isn’t the newest model, or the most expensive, or anything else that he’d find at the store he frequents.
It’s his camera. Maybe not the same hunk of metal and plastic that he’d weathered and worn in his own hands, but a near replica of it. A model that they stopped making years ago.
Prompto saved up for months to buy himself this model. It’s likely a drop in the bucket for Ignis, but still— still, he doesn’t know what to say.
Ignis told him to look through the gallery. The screen flashes a familiar logo as he turns it on, the lens winding and unwinding as it boots up. And when he clicks the button on the side to load the array of photos, his mouth runs dry.
They’re his photos. Photographs that should be buried with a heap of other junk in his ruined apartment. Photographs he’s clicked through almost daily since they parted for winter break.
“How did you…?”
“I couldn’t get the old camera to turn on,” Ignis explains, “but the card was fine.”
“Where’d you find this thing?” Prompto asks, still clicking through the gallery like it might only last until the sun comes up. He stops on a photo of the four of them, posed outside the diner they frequent at an ungodly time of night. The flash of the camera accentuated Gladio’s rosy cheeks, flushed from a few too many drinks. “They stopped making this model ages ago.”
Ignis doesn’t reply, but Prompto can practically feel his glint of satisfaction against his own skin. When he looks towards the advisor, the smile is there, all warmth and mischief and unanswered questions.
“He won’t share all of his secrets. Takes the magic out of it,” Gladio comments from the side, unbearably fond.
“I don’t know what to say,” Prompto chokes. His eyes are suspiciously glassy, but he’s too fixated on the photo in front of him to blink it away.
This is the only thing that he’s craved from the wreck of his apartment— the only thing he’s spared the time to miss and mourn. How Ignis had even known to replace it before he’d spoken a word on the subject is a mystery to him.
“Thank you, Ignis.” It doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing he can offer will feel like enough.
Still, Prompto tries. He leans over before he can second guess himself, planting a dry kiss on the apple of Ignis’ cheek. Color blooms brightly in his wake.
They nestle back up after all of the gifts are opened, lighting their last set of candles on the coffee table and pulling back the curtains to watch the sun rise. It doesn’t really feel like hours have passed, but the Solstice is set to end in mere minutes now.
Noctis is nodding off at his side. Prompto has to jostle him every so often, heeding his request to keep him awake until the new dawn.
“I’ve never had a Solstice like this,” Prompto says, feeling sleepy and uncharacteristically open. Gladio is a warm presence at his side, all relaxed muscles and steady breathing. “The traditions, I mean. It’s nice.”
“Way better than a stupid party,” Noctis mumbles. Ignis flicks him on the base of his neck and he startles, swatting back like an oversized cat. “What the hell was that for?”
“You were about to fall asleep,” the advisor answers. His smug look insists otherwise.
“I was talking!”
“I’ve seen you fall asleep in unlikelier scenarios.”
They bicker for another few minutes, but it’s all a cheap farce. Even half-asleep, Noctis is grinning, leaning back until the advisor gives in and wraps an arm around his shoulders.
“Guys, be quiet!” Prompto interrupts, leaning forward to get a better look through the window. The sun is almost cresting now; he can see the faint whispers of orange light peering over the wide cityscape. “We gotta blow out the candles.”
There’s a tired grumble and he doesn’t have to look back to know who’s complaining, but the three of them lean up per request. They’re about to extinguish the flames placed respectively in front of them, but Prompto startles, tossing the blanket from over his lap and stumbling up.
“Wait!” He hurries, nearly tripping over the dead weight of his legs. He manages to make it across the room, fetching his new camera still wrapped carefully in its box. “Stay where you are.”
Gladio huffs a laugh and the flame in front of him wobbles in warning.
“Careful!” Prompto chides, stumbling back over to find a proper angle. “Don’t blow them out.”
He takes his time snapping photos of the three of them and the slowly emerging sun, admiring the rays of amber light on the scene in front of him. Prompto knows his hands are too shaky to capture anything well, but he still speeds through the click of the shutter until he’s satisfied.
“Okay,” he concludes, putting his camera back in the box like he’s gingerly laying an infant in their crib. “We can start now.”
They’re quiet as they blow out the candles. Prompto doesn’t know what his friends are wishing for, but he quietly sends up a prayer for more evenings that are just as warm as this one.
The days pass in dry layers of healed skin that recede with Prompto’s guilt. Ignis makes it easy to forget that he doesn’t really belong here, settling him into his morning routines and easy errands around town once Prompto can confidently move on his own.
His follow-up appointment went without a hitch. The antibiotics have been working well enough, and the fluid in his lungs is clearing up day by day. He's even cleared to remove the gauze now, and leave the blisters to air out and heal.
Raph was more than understanding about the time off, mumbling that Prompto ought to have taken a vacation ages ago and they’ll welcome him back when he’s healed. Any attempt to apologize was shot down, in Raph’s typical reserved fashion.
Prompto tries to count the days in the beginning. There isn’t much else to do as he’s healing, lazing away with his companions and testing his luck with how much they’ll let him get away with. It turns out to be very little under Ignis’ watchful gaze, and he frequently finds himself being ushered back to bed or to the couch to rest.
Maybe they’re going a little overboard. Prompto really feels okay most days. His nerves are holding on to the stinging chill a bit longer than they should, but he can walk just fine. And with Ignis’ meticulously crafted diet, the persistent fog in his brain ebbs over time.
Having such a clear head is an unfamiliar feeling. It’s been so long since he’s been able to stand up without his vision darkening around the corners— so long since he’s been able to just exist, not busying himself to distract from the pang in his empty stomach.
They don’t talk about the approaching semester very often. Noctis gets grumpy whenever it’s mentioned, pulling the remaining time thin and avoiding any reminders that it’ll inevitably come to an end. Prompto won’t be the one to pop the fragile bubble around them. He’s happy to leave that task to Ignis.
The advisor doesn’t make promises lightly, so when Prompto mentions anything about his old apartment, he’s assured before he can fully form the thought. Ignis already talked to his landlord, making sure there are no charges for this month if he isn’t able to live there.
Apparently it was a shock, even to his landlord, that he’d been the one solely paying his rent.
So now he’s here, twitching nervously at the dining table and avoiding eye contact with the Marshal of the Crownsguard. The stone-faced man looks funny like this, dressed in casual clothing and sipping coffee that leaves a line of white foam above his lip.
“How have you been feeling?” Cor asks, setting his mug down on one of the coasters. He’s so rigid and unreadable, Prompto doesn’t dare to fidget even as every part of him yearns to.
“Fine!” Prompto chokes, steadying his voice the best that he can. He hasn’t had one of those awful coughing fits in a while, but he worries that he’ll fall victim to it now. “Much better, thank you!”
“At ease,” Gladio chimes behind him, bringing a mug of his own and joining them at the table. Ignis settles in next, neatly crossing his legs with a cordial smile. It’s soothing to have them here, as they’re both far more familiar with the Marshal than he is, but it’s not nearly enough to unwind Prompto’s nerves. “This isn’t a Crownsguard interrogation. Cor’s not so bad when he’s off duty.”
That may be true, but Prompto is still utterly confused. His friends didn’t explain this meeting in detail, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t come up with a reasonable explanation for the Marshal of the Crownsguard taking interest in his pathetic case of child neglect.
Maybe Noctis bullied him into investigating. Or maybe it’s written in some vague policy, forcing his hand because of Prompto’s close ties to the royal family.
Still, it’s wholly unnecessary. The only thing Ignis told him beforehand is that Cor was able to reach his elusive parents, and Prompto isn’t sure if he wants to hear what they had to say.
“I do have questions,” Cor clarifies, sending an icy look to Gladio that would wither anyone else. “But you don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to. We can talk about whatever you’re comfortable with, at your pace.”
Prompto thinks his hands might be shaking. He wants to take a sip of his drink to clear his throat, but he doubts he could manage to steadily grasp the mug.
None of this matters anymore. There’s no need to go digging into his past, or to go hunting for the couple that clearly gave up on him ages ago. Prompto doubts any revelations today could soothe the wound that he’s been poorly tending to for the better part of a decade.
“Can I ask questions too?” Prompto blurts, wincing inwardly. That was definitely improper. “I mean— yes. You can ask me anything! I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Yeah, kid. You can ask questions.” Cor visibly softens as Prompto panics further. It’s a far cry from the tone that he used with Gladio. “This really isn’t an interrogation.”
Prompto tries to loosen up, letting his shoulders slump slightly. He flexes his fingers until the shaking ceases.
“Why are you looking into this?” Prompto winces again at how blunt he sounds, reeling back his line of questioning. “I mean, don’t get me wrong! I’m grateful that you are, it’s just— I don’t really understand. And since I’m eighteen now, they aren’t even really breaking the law.”
Cor’s eyes widen, barely enough to notice, before he slips back to his typical steady expression.
“I’m— acquainted with the Argentums. Or, I was. We haven’t been in touch in recent years, but when I heard the news, I figured I might have some luck in reaching out to them.”
Prompto thinks there’s a whole lot that the Marshal is neglecting to share. His normally to-the-point way of speaking has morphed into something fluttery and nervous, and he almost seems to choke around the word acquainted like it hurts him.
“Oh,” Prompto breathes. “So you knew them? Before the adoption?”
He thinks he’d remember if someone like Cor was around for tea parties with his parents. As far as Prompto recalls, they’d never even mentioned him, and the first time he met the Marshal was at the Citadel for a real interrogation. Or a background check. It certainly felt like he’d committed some crime.
Cor nods, steadying himself with another sip of his coffee. Ignis and Gladio are staying respectfully silent, poised and ready to butt in if Prompto needs them to.
“We— lost touch, after the adoption. Things get busy with a kid,” he explains. Again, he appears to be skirting around the edges of truth, too pained to get the words out properly. “But it sounds like they weren’t as busy as I thought.”
“Busy with work, maybe.” Prompto shrugs, the defense rolling off of his tongue with practiced ease. “They always had lots of business outside Insomnia. They sent money ‘til I turned eighteen, though.”
Cor swallows, and Prompto watches the thick movement as his throat bobs. He’s never seen the Marshal look so miserable, but maybe that’s because he’s only interacted with the man a small handful of times. Maybe he’s just a sullen guy.
“I’m sorry,” Cor says, and Prompto raises an eyebrow. It seems like a heavy burden to bear, feeling this guilty over some kid of an old acquaintance. “They still should’ve been there. And those checks were rightfully yours, anyways.”
Prompto goes stock-still, his reply dying on his tongue. It’s not like he hadn’t figured as much over the years; he knows his parents received funding to take care of him after the adoption. He couldn’t reason their choice to adopt him in the first place without weaving that in.
Still, it’s another thing to hear it confirmed.
Days with his parents weren’t always filled with white-knuckled grips and harshly uttered whispers. Sometimes, they were gentle with him. Sometimes, Prompto would watch the world with wide eyes from his father’s shoulders, tall enough to reach dangling fruits on the tree branches in the park. Sometimes, his mother would wrestle him into soft towels after the bath, ruffling his hair and tickling his sides until his giggles abated.
Those memories are harder to reach nowadays. He doesn’t know why he thinks about them now, sitting still and quiet after Cor’s admission. It shouldn’t even be a shock to him; Prompto knew damn well why they kept him around.
There’s a hand on his knee then, firm enough to cease his thoughts. Gladio is tight-lipped, clearly pissed on his behalf, but his fingers don’t grip tight enough to hurt. Just enough to bring him back.
“They still owe you,” Cor continues, and Prompto finally meets his stare across the table. “They sent enough to cover rent, but that doesn’t count. The checks were supposed to go towards your needs, not their regular bills. Doesn’t matter if you’re eighteen— you aren’t even on the lease.”
“Yeah, I figured they were scraping a bit off of the government stuff,” Prompto confirms, nodding in a subdued movement. “It’s not like the people who send the money care to check where it’s going.”
Cor looks stricken, like Prompto had dealt him a physical lash rather than a simple line of truth. He wants to apologize, or take back whatever he said that could’ve warranted such a reaction, but things are clicking into place in a jarring way.
His unreasonable guilt. His nosiness about a situation that he really has no stake in, especially considering their limited history and clinical interactions before now. His stark reactions to everything that Prompto says.
“Are you like,” Prompto pauses, quieting his voice, “my real dad or something?”
Cor chokes on nothing. If he looked stricken before, Prompto doesn’t even know how to contextualize the man’s face now— his eyes set to bulge from his head, the vein near his ear wobbling in warning.
“Sorry! Stupid question!”
Cor, the Marshal of the fucking Crownsguard, starts blushing all the way across his nose. Prompto almost wants to reach over and check his pulse to make sure the man’s heart hasn’t stopped beating.
“I’m not—”
“You don’t have to explain!” Prompto interrupts, flailing his arms in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t know why I said that. Ignore me!”
Gladio tries to choke back a laugh and fails, sputtering it out roughly. He immediately straightens up after the searing look that Cor sends him, snapping his jaw shut and averting his eyes to somewhere else across the room.
I guess he even scares Gladio sometimes. There’s no way we’re related.
“We’re not...” Cor starts, pausing awkwardly on a heavy exhale. He sounds almost sorry to choke out the next bit. “We’re not related.”
“No, absolutely! Of course not! You really should ignore half of the sh— stuff that comes out of my mouth,” Prompto rushes out. Eager to veer the topic away from the Marshal’s possible exploits, he barrels on. “So you got in touch with my parents? What did they say?”
Prompto really doesn’t want to know, but even that dreary subject seems safer than where they’re stuck right now. He doesn’t bother waiting for the real answer about Cor’s unreasonable interest in him; no more guesses are coming out of Prompto’s mouth for the foreseeable future.
“They’re in Cleigne,” Cor confirms, and Prompto is hit with a small wave of relief. “Up north, near Vesperpool. They’ve been working on some report about unnatural sahagin behavior for the past few months. I couldn’t tell you more than that about their work— your mom is hard to follow when she’s all worked up.”
Prompto understands. He used to look forward to her rambles about whatever subject they’d been chasing when they came home from a long trip. She didn’t have the wherewithal to pick and pry at Prompto’s life choices when she was telling her own stories.
Still, a few months isn’t a year. They must’ve had time between jobs to stop by.
“So… Before that? Did they say anything else?”
Cor sighs, sipping his coffee and leaning back in his chair. He has that pained pinch between his brows again, even deeper than his usual scowl.
“Before that, it was just more work outside of Insomnia. Myrlwood, Taelpar Crag, Galdin. She didn’t—” Cor pauses in a silent debate. “I had to bring you up.”
Prompto breathes out an imitation of a laugh. Cor looks so sorry to break the news, and he wants to lighten the heavy weight in the room somehow. It doesn’t even make a dent.
“Yeah, I figured. She’s pretty flighty about that stuff. Bet she talked your ear off before you could even ask her anything,” Prompto says, picking at the pilled fabric of his sweatpants. “So when you did bring me up, what’d she say?”
“They didn’t do much talking after I chewed them out,” Cor admits, and the blush is back. “They’ll be covering the rent from now on. And the checks they owed you growing up will trickle back to you every month. You can use it for college, or your own place, or a plane ticket to kick their asses yourself. I don’t care. But I’ll be making sure it gets to you this time.”
This time?
“So, before,” Prompto starts, latching onto that revelation more than anything else. “Were you the one—”
“If there’s anything else you want from them, just ask me,” Cor interrupts. “You don’t have to contact them if you don’t feel like it. And since I’m having them mail the checks to me, I’ll be stopping by to see you.”
“Oh.” Prompto blanches. He wants to insist that it isn’t necessary, but Cor looks so sincere, his steady eyes locked on Prompto’s wavering ones. Maybe this arrangement is just as beneficial for Cor, for whatever reasons he’s declining to share. There’s no need to pry it out of him. “Okay, sure. Thanks, Marshal. I’ll be at Iggy’s place until my own is fixed up.”
Cor doesn’t smile, but it’s a near thing. Prompto thinks it’s equivalent to a beaming expression on anyone else.
The blisters start to scar over, leaving pockmarks of soft pink tissue in their wake. Ignis is still diligent, long after they’ve become painless reminders, tending to the remnants until it’s practically a routine for them.
School starts back up in a few days. Prompto isn’t dreading it nearly as much as Noctis, who’s been spending more time at Ignis’ place than his own apartment or the Citadel. If anything, Prompto is glad to have something to devote himself to again; he can only drag on for so long with no real schedule to follow.
They’re all lingering around now, relishing the days they have left to stay up late without stressing over early mornings. Even Ignis is relaxing, putting on a record that Prompto doesn’t recognize and leaving the dishes from dinner in the sink to worry about later.
“You checked your schedule yet?” Noctis asks, eyes fixed on the television screen as his character sneaks behind a dumpster. He’s stuck like a leech to Prompto’s right side, insistent on having some point of contact at all times, no matter what he’s doing.
“Yeah, I got all the classes I requested,” Prompto answers. “What about you? Maybe we’ve got some of the same ones.”
Noctis grumbles, pausing the game and tossing his controller aside so he can sprawl further over Prompto. Maybe he ought to complain that his leg has fallen asleep with the elbow digging into a nerve on his thigh, but Prompto really doesn’t mind the pain.
“I haven’t checked yet.”
“Dude!” Prompto lightly smacks the prince’s arm, turning to Ignis for support. “It starts on Monday! What if you have assignments in the syllabus?”
“I’ve already gone over his schedule,” Ignis says, adjusting Noctis’ legs over his lap. “He’ll be fine. And you’re taking two of the same classes.”
Prompto groans, whipping around to Gladio in a last ditch effort. The shield dog ears the page he’s currently reading, slipping his book shut to tune into their conversation.
“I got nothing to say.” Gladio smirks, ruffling Prompto’s hair and then planting a kiss on his crown like an apology. “I gave up on this fight years ago.”
It’s been an easier adjustment than Prompto thought it would be, letting these new developments bloom between them. There isn’t a name for it as far as Prompto knows, but he doesn’t think any of them are really concerned about a label.
They just are what they are. With everything out in the open now, Prompto doesn’t have to choke down the mushy stuff, and he doesn’t have to cower away when they offer the same back to him. It’s just easy— instinctual and intuitive in a way that Prompto never thought things could be in such an atypical relationship.
“Your apartment should be done this week, right?” Noctis asks, sounding far from excited about the prospect.
“Yeah, my landlord called yesterday,” Prompto answers. He can’t say he’s stoked about it either. Just the thought of going home to a quiet apartment sends an unsettling pang through his gut. “Should be ready when school starts back up.”
“You know,” Noctis adds conspiratorially, “you don’t need to move back. Specs doesn’t mind.”
“I’m right here, Noct,” Ignis chides, though he doesn’t sound truly peeved. “But he’s right. If you’d like to stay, the bedroom is yours. For as long as you wish.”
It’s a tempting offer. He almost blurts out an agreement without thinking, his lips parting on a half-formulated answer.
Prompto doesn’t even think that Ignis would mind if he decided to stay. They all know the advisor’s tendencies, and if Prompto was out of sight he’d just have more fuel to worry himself sick over. So Prompto isn’t sure why his thoughts are nagging him to insist otherwise, weighing the pros and cons of moving in and finding almost nothing in the latter category.
The only thing that he has to cling onto is a small, dilapidated ball of pride. And what would he be facing for that? Nights spent alone, with no busy footsteps or mindless chatter to keep him company? Hours in silence, plagued only by his own unkind thoughts? A constant void to skirt around, praying he doesn’t grace the edges and slip in?
None of that seems worth it for mere pride. Not when staying here would mean an endless amount of warmth. Not when he hasn’t felt at home anywhere else.
“Iggy’s place is closer to campus,” Noctis continues. Prompto lets him keep defending his stance, though he knows he’s already made up his mind. “We can carpool. And it’ll be easier to hang out.”
“Mhm,” Prompto hums, furrowing his brow in mock concentration. “Will you ever go back to your own place if I’m here too? Iggy already works full-time, you know.”
“A fine point, Prompto.”
“Hey!” Noctis springs up, pulling his legs from Ignis’ lap. Gladio snorts from the other side of the sofa. “He is not working right now. Unless being a smug asshole is a full-time job.”
“I’m always on the clock.”
“You’re in your pajamas right now, Specs.”
“Okay,” Prompto interrupts. They both snap their attention to him, pupils widening as they catch sight of his toothy smile. “I’ll stay.”