Archive of Our Own ^beta

Noctis wanders away from the fire after they’re done with their conversation.

Prompto watches him as he meanders over to the edge of the haven and sits, staring out into the darkness absently. He gives it a few minutes, then excuses himself and leaves Ignis and Gladio to tidy up the remnants of their dinner. He feels a little guilty about it but, hey, priorities.

He settles down next to Noctis. He doesn’t say anything, just bumps his best friend’s shoulder gently and waits for him to speak. If he stays silent, that’ll be alright, too. Prompto would be perfectly happy to sit here with Noctis forever.

He does speak, though. Eventually.

“I don’t want to do this to you,” he murmurs quietly, still staring out at nothing. “To any of you. I don’t want to make any of you feel like being beside me for all those years was just for nothing.”

Prompto gapes at him. “It’s not going to be for nothing, dude. If you died on some pointless dungeon crawl back in the day, maybe, but this… we get it. It –” he sucks in a breath. “It’s shit, yeah, but… we get it.”

“Still,” Noctis says.

He’s doing that thing where he sounds like he’s in physical pain even though they’re just having a conversation, so Prompto’s pretty sure he’s about to actually open up about something. He tenses, despite himself.

“I remember when I found out my dad died,” Noctis says haltingly. “I knew he sacrificed himself for me – for everyone, I guess – but I was still angry at him for it.”

Prompto nods. He remembers, too. Then again, Noctis had never been very good at expressing his emotions in a way that didn’t involve getting angry, but Prompto’s not about to open that can of worms.

“You didn’t know,” he reasons. “We know. Can’t be angry when none of this is your choice, anyway. Well, can’t be angry at you, at least.”

Noctis looks at him, and the forlorn look in his eyes halts Prompto’s breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says sadly. “I’m just… sorry.”

Prompto doesn’t know what to do with that, so he looks away. He feels like a coward for the first time in a very long while.

“You know what I think?” he says suddenly. He winces at how fake-bright his voice sounds.

Noctis offers a flicker of a smile in response, though. “Do share.”

“I think his number one priority is, y’know, following your wishes or whatever, but I’m pretty sure Iggy’d let the world burn if you suddenly decided you didn’t want to sacrifice yourself.”

Noctis raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yep!” Prompto says cheerfully. “In a heartbeat.” And it’s a painful thought, imagining everyone they’ve ever cared about suffering like this forever, but in his current emotional state, he’d probably agree with Ignis. “But he knows how much you care. He knows you. You’re a –” oh, fuck, he’s going to cry again. “– you’re a good king. You’re also literally the most stubborn person in existence and you aren’t going to change your mind, so he’s gonna keep being by your side until you get done what you’re trying to get done. Same with me and Gladio, on that front.”

Noctis looks sort of amazed. Maybe bewildered. “Let the world burn? If I said that’s what I wanted?”

“Mhm. He’d never tell you that’s how he feels, though. I reckon he doesn’t want you to have to worry about that on top of everything else.”

“Wish he would.”

“That’s the thing about him though, right? He’s got so many rules, like he thinks if he slips up and lets himself be selfish for even a second, he’ll never be able to stop.”

Noctis puts his head in his hands. “Gods, I was such a moron when I was younger. I was always mad at him for nagging me all the time, I never realised how much –” he shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it.

“I used to wish I was like Iggy and Gladio,” Prompto admits. “I wished I was bound to you like they were, because if you needed me then I’d know you’d never be able to get rid of me.” He laughs somewhat bashfully. “I stopped feeling like that eventually. I like being your friend just because I’m your friend, nothing else. I think it probably sucked for them. I mean, we are all friends, but for those two… I think they both felt like there always had to be that little bit of distance or they wouldn’t be able to do their jobs properly.“

He can see the pain on Noctis’ face, but there’s understanding there too. He knows who he is, has fully comprehended it for a while now, and he knows it’s as true for him as it is for them.

“To be fair,” Prompto says quickly. “I don’t think it really matters now. I’m in the same position they are. Doesn’t really matter how much they love you or how duty-bound they are. The plan isn’t gonna change.”

“Doesn’t matter how much I love any of you, either,” Noct says quietly.

It’s silent for a moment, only the sound of the fire crackling behind them. And then Noctis looks up at Prompto again, grinning, and the moment is broken.

“Also, you’re pretty smart. Have I ever told you that?”

Prompto grins back shakily, like that little admission didn’t just rip out his heart. Or like he isn’t suffering whiplash from how quickly Noctis pivoted the conversation afterwards.

“Thanks.”

-

Noctis retires to the tent first.

It’s as though he’s acquiescing something unspoken, allowing his retinue the grace of watching over him as he falls asleep, like he knows none of them would be able to relax without first knowing he’s alright.

Ignis climbs into the tent second. He hears Gladio and Prompto talking softly behind him as he retreats, something mundane and meaningless to stave off the weight of what awaits them.

Ignis is certain they will all end up laid out in the same arrangement of sleeping bags as they always have, out of habit. Gladio next to Noctis, Prompto on his other side, Ignis on Gladio’s outside. He knows this well enough to avoid stepping on Noctis as he enters the tent, finds his way to his place and settles on his side.

He lays there, unmoving. Everything is still. His thoughts won’t shut up.

The first instinct Ignis had when he heard Noctis’ voice for the first time in ten years was to grab him and crush him into a hug. But Ignis is ever professional and ever restrained, so he didn’t. Still, the warm hand Noctis laid on his shoulder soon after had been such a relief that he hadn’t quite known what to do with himself. Now he’s laying only one empty sleeping bag’s width away, and Ignis has nothing to do but think about how, if everything goes well tomorrow, Noctis will be gone again, this time for good.

He listens.

Noct’s breathing sounds different to how it would if he were awake, but it isn’t as calm as Ignis would like. It’s unsteady, too shallow and too quick.

He’s having a nightmare.

Ignis rolls over. The can tell where Noct’s head is from the sound of his breathing, knows he’s turned away on his side. As slowly and gently as he can manage, he reaches across the space. Not for the first time that night, he pictures Noctis the way he’d looked the first time they met.

When Noctis was very young, when Ignis was first tasked with taking care of him, he was already beholden to odd sleeping habits. That he was impossible to coax out of bed in the morning was a fairly consistent fact, but everything in between was always prone to change.

Some days he was already tired enough that he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Other nights, he would try to start what Ignis supposed he thought was a very rational debate with anyone who tried to pull him away from whatever activity he was invested in – obviously, young children were not very rational and his arguments mostly equated to “I don’t want to” but they had always been valiant efforts.

The rest of them, the nights where Noctis couldn’t fall asleep – occurring most often immediately after his injury but slowly dwindling in frequency with every day he spent recovering, only to return in full force after the attack on Tenebrae – were the worst of all.

Ignis slept on the spare bed in the corner of Noct’s room fairly often when they were children. He remembers waking sometimes in the middle of the night and padding softly over to Noctis’ bed to check on him, just to find him laying on his back, staring silently up at the ceiling like he wasn’t even there. It had always spooked Ignis enough that he’d stay up to make sure Noct eventually fell asleep, sometimes even drifting off in a chair beside his bed.

That was when Noctis really started feeling like something precious to him, like something he wanted to protect and care for instead of just doing it because he was supposed to.

Occasionally, instead of the usually eerie vacancy of his sleeplessness, Noctis got so frustrated at his bouts of insomnia that he cried. Ignis would never comment on it – Noctis hadn’t been big on emotional vulnerability, even then – he’d just silently climb into the bed with Noctis and clumsily pet his hair until the sniffling stopped and they both eventually succumbed to sheer exhaustion.

His hand makes contact with Noctis’ hair. He’d showered in the caravan before they left, so his hair is as soft as shampoo sourced ten years into the apocalypse allows for. It feels longer than Ignis remembers it looking, not styled into the spiky mess he’s used to either. He smooths his palm over it delicately, half terrified he’ll wake Noctis. When he doesn’t wake, though, Ignis keeps stroking. He feels at once very young and very old. He wishes he could see Noct’s face, wonders if he looks more like his father now or if he still just looks like Noctis. His chest feels like it’s going to cave in.

Eventually, Noctis’ breathing slows. It evens out into something deeper and calmer. Ignis feels a wave of relief wash over him and realises how badly he’d been fretting a moment ago. It leaves him feeling hollow, exhausted.

He knows he should move his hand from where it rests against Noct’s hair. The exhaustion drags him down before he can be sure whether or not he ever does.

-

Gladio makes note of his surroundings as soon as he wakes up.

Ignis to his left, on his back with his hands joined over his stomach, still but breathing too light to be asleep. Prompto to his right, curled away from him with a hand resting on the empty sleeping bag beside him.

Empty sleeping bag.

Noctis isn’t in the tent.

Gladio is completely awake and moving before he’s fully aware of it, an old protective muscle not even slightly atrophied even after ten long years of disuse.

He calms as soon as he’s made it out of the tent. Noctis isn’t gone, just crouched few metres away, fiddling with his knee brace.

Gladio just watches him for a moment, heart aching. He knows he, Prompto and Ignis have changed a lot in ten years, but he’s at least seen them often enough that the changes in their appearances have been almost too gradual to really notice. Sure, the first day Prompto turned up after he’d grown out that silly goatee had been somewhat of a shock, but it had been nothing compared to seeing Noctis again.

The man before him is almost a stranger. His jaw is more square, highlighted all the more by the beard, which is unfamiliar in itself. His hair is longer, his face more lined than it was when he was twenty. There’s something about the way he holds himself too, the way he meets people’s eyes and doesn’t fidget through conversations.

Gladio tries not to think about how Noctis won’t be around long enough for any of them to get used to it.

He approaches softly, though not so soft as to spook Noctis when he finally does step into his line of sight.

“Bit early for you, isn’t it?” he ribs gently.

He can’t even joke about Noctis being up at the crack of dawn. The sky is dark. There hasn’t been a dawn in ten years.

Noctis finishes his fiddling, straightens, sets his gaze on Gladio.

“I’ve slept more than enough,” he says with a slight smile. And then, seemingly before he can think better of it, “I can sleep when I’m dead.”

He seems to realise what he’s just said as soon as it’s out of his mouth, and an almost surprised huff of laughter follows his words.

Gladio doesn’t want to laugh at that. He doesn’t know what to do with it at all. Maybe punch Noctis for joking about his own death. He slips his hands into his pockets as casually as he can so Noctis doesn’t see them balling into fists.

He wishes he could just be proud of the man his king has become, and a part of him is, but the sudden, aching grief drowns it out almost completely.

He manages a very forced snort and a gruff “about time.” Noctis grins at him and kicks his foot good-naturedly. Gladio puts all his effort into not crying.

-

The sun rises and catches, glittering, on the shattered glass and twisted metal of long-since decimated Insomnian architecture. The horde of daemons clustered at the foot of the palace steps dissolves out of existence around the three men standing back to back in the centre of it all, suddenly very small in the wide open space.

It should feel like relief. It should feel good to stand in warmth and light again for the first time in a decade. They should be hollering in joy like they can hear crownsguard and glaives doing all over the city.

Instead, it feels like a punch to the gut.

Prompto, out of habit, tries to dismiss the gun in his hand to the Armiger. Nothing happens. He drops it like it burns him.

Gladio stabs his claymore into the earth beneath his feet, resolute and final. He isn’t breathing right. His chest aches.

Ignis can’t bear to even try reaching for the king’s magic. He slides his daggers into the sheath on his thigh. It’s difficult to do with how hard his hands are shaking.

None of them move for a very, very long time.