Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Noctis wants to fall back asleep the moment he opens his eyes, stifling a groan at the sound of his pre-Ignis alarm blaring and ringing in his ears. He reaches an arm over, hitting it a couple times until the noise mercifully stops, and then falls still, staring blankly at the ceiling.

He’d been tossing and turning all night, too hot and then shivering cold on a constant loop, and now he can feel the tiredness already pulling at his stinging eyes. He runs a hand down his face, heated cheeks clear to even his own touch.

Shit.

Of course he would choose the day of his dad’s annual holiday address to get sick.

He swings shaky legs over the side of the bed. Ignis’ll be here any minute, and if he sees him like this, it’s lights out for the speech. 

He’s expected to be present as he always is, supporting the King and generally just showing his face to the people. There’s always a massive crowd that gathers at the stage they set up outside the Citadel, and it’s also broadcast live for anyone who can’t make it. Honestly, it’s usually kind of a bore, the same old declarations of peace and reminiscing about the year gone by, but hey, it’s tradition. He has to at least make an effort to act like a proper Prince – especially now. 

Standing up slowly, Noctis heads to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face to try wake him up a little more. He catches sight of himself in the mirror – gods, he looks half-dead. Dark shadows contrast with paler-than-usual skin to make him more akin to a ghost than anything else.

Recently, he’s been under more scrutiny than usual from some of the nobility in the court. He knows he’s not a model example of a Prince, and they take issue with that, despite his father’s reassurances that he’s doing fine. Going to public school, hanging out with ‘commoners’, living away from the Citadel – everything he does seems like another black mark on their opinion of him. And he doesn’t give a shit about what they think, not really, but it feels crappy to embarrass his dad like that. He has enough on his plate to have to deal with a joke of a son as well, so Noctis can’t afford another failure on his part.

He returns to his bedroom, eyeing the suit Ignis laid out last night. It’s not an ideal outfit for the situation he’s in, but appearances are everything for this sort of thing. Piece by piece, he gets ready, every layer feeling sharp against his skin. Turning to the mirror, tie in hand, he fumbles with the knot, trembling fingers struggling to get it right. 

Out of nowhere, Noctis’ eyes burn and he abandons the attempt, sinking down onto the side of his bed in defeat. Gods, he feels like shit. 

No, he can’t ruin this. It’s not a total loss yet. He doesn't even have to say anything – he can manage standing on a stage for a half hour. He will do it.

He hears the door open and he springs up, trying to at least get his hair under control before Ignis sees him. And right on cue, Ignis appears in the doorframe, analytical eyes falling on him immediately, scanning up and down. His eyebrow arches just slightly. 

Shit.

“You’re up already,” he muses, entering the room and opening the curtains. Noctis can’t hold back the slight flinch at the sudden abundance of light that makes his head spin slightly.

“Uh, yeah,” Noctis says, clearing his throat discreetly. “Didn’t feel like rushing around today.”

Ignis turns to face him, and Noctis finds himself almost holding his breath as he’s subjected to an Ignis-style visual inspection. 

He’s suspicious; Noctis can tell straight away. The barely noticeable narrowing of his eyes, the slight tilt of his head – there’s a questioning coming.

“I suppose people really can change,” Ignis says, taking a step closer to fix the abandoned tie. “I thought I was doomed to serve as your alarm clock for the rest of my days.”

Noctis forces a small laugh. “I just assumed you enjoyed it. Thought I was doing you a favour.” He swallows, his throat protesting the motion.

Ignis finishes with the tie and moves his hands to straighten out Noctis’ shirt collar and suit jacket, sweeping the material out over his shoulders. Appearing happy with the state of him, Ignis steps back and for a moment, Noctis thinks he’s gotten away with it.

“Well, I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Noctis.”

Full name. Yep, it’s over.

“Iggy–”

“I wanted to give you a chance to admit it, but I see you’re as stubborn as ever,” Ignis says, no-nonsense. “You’re ill.”

There’s no use denying it now.

“I know,” Noctis relents with a sigh as he sits back down on the bed, elbows braced on his knees. “Came out of nowhere.”

“So why are you still getting ready?” Ignis questions. “You’re not going anywhere like this.”

“Ignis, don’t–”

“Noct. Be reasonable.”

“I am! But–”

“You’ll make yourself worse. Please–”

“Ignis, stop!” Noctis says, holding his head in his hands. “I have to go. Please don’t try to convince me not to. I have to.”

When he looks up again, Ignis stares at him for a moment, probably debating with himself on what to do, before half-heartedly rolling his eyes and approaching, crouching down in front of him. He places a hand on Noctis’ forehead, brow furrowing. Noctis forces himself not to lean into the cool touch.

“You’re running hot,” Ignis says with a shake of his head. Then, gently, “Noct, you should be resting.”

“Yeah, well, trust me, this isn’t my idea of a perfect morning,” Noctis snaps, the words sharper than he intended. He slumps his shoulders. “Sorry. I just… I can't miss it, Iggy.”

Ignis nods slowly, clearly not happy but still understanding. “Alright,” he says. “Have you taken anything?”

“No.”

Ignis tuts, standing up. “Why not? It would've helped for the fever at least.”

Noctis pauses for a second. “Forgot.”

“Forgot you had them?”

“Forgot they existed,” Noctis says lamely. He's been so concerned with trying to keep it together that he forgot he could've taken something to help keep the symptoms at bay. Sure, the pills aren't as effective for him as they would be for someone without his magic, but still, might've helped at least a little.

Ignis huffs and leaves the room, returning quickly with a bottle of pills and a glass of water. Handing the glass to Noctis, he shakes out two pills and drops them into Noctis’ open hand.

“Take these. I'll make you some breakfast before we leave,” Ignis says.

Knocking the pills back, Noctis shakes his head with a grimace. Food sounds… not so great right now.

“Nah, Iggy, I'm okay,” Noctis says, not dissuaded by Ignis’ unimpressed stare. “Just… not right now? After the speech.”

Sighing, Ignis gives up. 

The next thirty minutes go by quickly. Noctis sits on the couch, just trying to breathe and collect himself before it's time to go. The suit is stifling and restrictive – it's a test of endurance to not rip the damn tie off and burn it on the spot – and aching exhaustion keeps him eerily still where he sits. The pills aren't noticeably helping, or maybe he's just getting progressively worse. Hard to say.

Ignis busies himself with random chores, or that's what Noctis assumed he was doing until he caught him dusting the same shelf for the third time, stealing concerned glances at him all the while. 

Noctis watches the clock as time creeps forward, his head starting to pound in sync with the ticking of the hands, and grimly reminds himself why he's doing this. It's not gonna be fun, but he can probably slip away during the after-party without drawing too much attention. By then, he'll have been seen, and after a few drinks, people will forget all about him.

Two minutes before they're scheduled to leave, Ignis loiters by the coat rack. He's so clearly not happy about this, but Noctis appreciates that he respects his wishes anyway. 

The room spins around him as he stands up, and Noctis takes a second to regain his balance, not wanting to collapse before he even gets out the door. Locking eyes with a thoroughly displeased Ignis, he nods – time to go.

“Are you quite sure about this, Noct?” Ignis says half-pleadingly. A last-ditch attempt to keep him home.

“Yeah, same as the last time you asked,” Noctis says, patting his shoulder as he makes his way to the door. “I'll be fine.”

Ignis sighs yet again, but follows him out of the apartment anyway. “Gladio is meeting us there. You know he won't like this.”

Noctis hums in agreement, shrugging. “Does he ever like anything?”

The car ride was… unpleasant, to say the least. He doesn’t get motion sick, but being stuck in the enclosed space, the car’s constant stopping and starting thanks to the ever-growing traffic, and his increasingly distracting headache all added up to seriously make him consider asking Ignis to turn around. However, it only took a single thought of his dad having to explain his absence to the court to force him to push ahead.

As Ignis parks up, Noctis mentally prepares himself, carefully constructing the ‘Prince Noctis’ facade. He can’t afford a slip-up in front of any members of the press who would be more than happy with a story on his declining health – every time he so much as coughs in public, there’s always a risk of reporters speculating that he won’t be fit to rule. It’s been an issue ever since the Marilith attack and his subsequent coma, and he can't stand the rumours. 

“Ready?” Ignis says, peering at him through the rearview mirror.

Noctis sweeps a few unruly strands of hair from his eyes and nods, resolute. “As I’ll ever be.”

As they walk towards the stage, they spot Gladio standing beside it and speaking to a Crownsguard, probably going over security details. Noticing them, he dismisses the guard and crosses the short distance between them. His expression, initially relaxed, shifts to one of confusion as his eyes land on Noctis.

Great.

“You look like shit,” he says bluntly, eyes moving to Ignis, a silent conversation happening between them. Over the past few years, they've grown close, and though being able to all hang out together was initially great, their ability to secretly talk about him while he's present can get slightly irritating.

“Thanks, you too,” Noctis retorts, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He had known Gladio wouldn't be as willing as Ignis to go along with this, but he's really not feeling up to an argument.

“The address won't be starting for a bit,” Ignis says, checking his watch. “How about we go inside while we wait?”

Noctis nods. “Sure, sounds–” His words are cut off by a sudden cough, deep and slightly concerning sounding. It irritates his throat even more, prompting another cough, and another, and another. His vision blurs as he fights for a breath, body ravaged by the attack. Contact on his arm stops him from falling flat on the ground and he puts a hand over his chest, like that'll help at all. All he can do is choke down what little air he’s able to, practically doubled over where he stands. This won't play well with Gladio and Ignis, that's for damn sure.

It's not clear how much time passes before he can mercifully take a shuddering breath, the coughs slowing and then abating entirely.

“Noct? Hey. Noct.” A voice. “Shit, Ignis, what the hell?”

Gladio. He's holding onto his arm, keeping him upright.

Gently moving away from the hold, Noctis manages to stand up straight, wiping away the few tears prompted by the coughing.

“Noct?” Ignis says from his other side. He looks incredibly worried and, yeah, fair enough. This isn't the best look.

“I'm good,” Noctis rasps, clearing his throat as gently as he can. “Good.”

“‘Good’. ‘Good’ my ass,” Gladio scoffs, moving to stand right in front of him. “You almost passed out.”

Noctis averts his eyes. He doesn’t need to look at Gladio to see the glare he’s definitely getting right now. “Well, I didn't.”

“Oh, he didn’t,” Gladio says with forced levity. “Hear that, Ignis? He didn't.” He puts a heavy hand on Noctis’ shoulder, drawing his attention. “Noct, get back in the damn car. You're going home.”

Noctis meets his eyes, shrugging his hand off. “The hell I am. I've been through this already with Ignis, and I'm not doing it again with you.”

“Your condition is getting worse by the minute, Noct,” Ignis presses. His even tone is irritating.

“I don't care. I really don't.”

Gladio huffs a breath, not amused in the slightest. “And what, you think that makes you strong? There are times to push forward and times to take a step back. This is one of those times.”

Noctis rolls his eyes, his head beginning to pound again. Gods, he doesn't need this lecture. What he needs is to go and gather his strength for the damn speech, and get his head straight, because every time they try to convince him to give up, a small part of his brain agrees, and he feels even worse.

Gladio, taking his silence for stubbornness, pokes a finger at his chest. “Get in the damn car before I carry you there myself.”

“Gladio,” Ignis says lowly, placing a hand on his arm. “Perhaps we should move this conversation elsewhere. We seem to be drawing unnecessary attention.”

Glancing briefly around him, Noctis then notices the curious looks and hushed whispers from passersby and even a few Crownsguard. More attention on him and his condition is the one thing he doesn't need.

Gladio hums, eyes never leaving Noctis. “Yeah, well, as soon as the princess here stops acting like a brat, we can go back to the apartment.”

Maybe it's the developing sickness that makes the words hit that little bit harder. 

Noctis narrows his eyes, clicking his tongue. “Do what you like, just leave me the hell alone.” 

He pushes past Gladio roughly, and heads for the doors to the Citadel. 

He knows they're just trying to help. And he wishes he could take them up on it. But this is so much bigger than him. This is his reputation, his father's reputation, at stake here. Sure, it's just one speech, but it could be the last domino. They never stop hunting for things to hold against him – the Prince missing out on yet another event, not following tradition, blowing off his responsibility – people will lose faith in him eventually. His family’s legacy will be tarnished because of him. And he can't have that. He can’t be a brat – that’s exactly what he has to avoid.

He walks into the foyer, dismayed to see it bustling with activity – last-minute prep for the address and the afterparty, no doubt. He’s not really in the mood for conversation, so before anyone takes notice of him, he walks. His feet carry him through hallways and around corners until he finds himself standing in front of his training room. A little sudden dizziness prompts him to step inside, taking a few steps before sliding down to sit against the wall, legs stretched out in front. Even that short walk leaves him tired, and he coughs pathetically, allowing himself to feel miserable. No one’s here to judge anyway.

His private training room is smaller than the main one, but that doesn’t matter much when he’s the only one who uses it. It was necessary once he started warp training – he wouldn’t have been able to practice if he was constantly worrying about warping into some Crownsguard doing their workout. And it helped his confidence grow, not having countless eyes on him as Gladio worked with him on hand-to-hand combat. Especially when his back or knee acted up and cut the day’s training short. 

Despite his whining during early morning starts and tough workouts, he did like training, and coming here. He’s been getting better every day at warping, and he loves how freeing it feels, being able to let loose and work off the stress of the day. Gladio can read him well, and knows when to ease off or push him harder. 

Noctis stifles a sigh at the thought of Gladio, and how he brushed him off like that. He didn’t deserve it.

As if summoned, the door cracks open and Gladio pops his head inside, looking left and right and sighing when he sees Noctis there. Closing the door behind him, he approaches and sits down next to him, not saying a word.

Noctis can tell his previous anger is gone. Maybe Ignis had something to do with that.

After a beat, Gladio sighs. “Look, I… I shouldn’t have lost it with you. So, I'm sorry for being an ass.”

“S'okay,” Noctis says, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Iggy told me you were pretty adamant about being here for the speech,” Gladio continues, trailing off. Giving Noctis a chance to come clean.

And because he feels so crappy, he doesn't have the energy to lie.

“You know as much as I do what they say about me. They'll take any chance to start rumours – I have to make a good impression today,” Noctis explains, resting his head on his folded arms.

Gladio makes a displeased noise. “You mean the noblemen in the court? Fuck them – if they have a problem, they can come to me.”

Noctis chuckles softly. “You know that’s not how it works.”

They're silent for a moment. Noctis feels he could fall asleep right here.

“You have it rough, I know. Gods, I know,”  Gladio says, hands forming fists on the floor. “But I'm your Shield. It's my job to protect you, even from yourself.”

Noctis looks over at him, and sees the clear worry written all over his face. If the situation was reversed and Gladio was the one running himself into the ground… yeah, he gets why they're so worked up.

“And being your Shield, I also know when you've made your mind up about something.” Gladio gives him a hard look. “So let’s negotiate.”

Noctis didn't see that coming. He cocks an eyebrow, prompting Gladio to continue.

“You go for the speech, do your thing, be Princely, whatever.” Gladio gestures in the air as he speaks. “Then I take you home right after, no complaining. Deal?”

Noctis considers it. He ideally wanted to go to the after-party too, but shit. He can't deny that he feels worse every minute; the party would be hell.

So he nods. “Deal.”

Soon enough, Ignis finds them, informing them that proceedings are beginning. Noctis stays quiet as they head towards the stage, trying to ignore the lightheadedness, nausea, tightness in his chest – everything. He pushes it down, psyching himself up. Can't fail now. He only has to last thirty minutes up there – then he can leave and sleep forever. Or until some other responsibility calls for his attention.

Just before he enters the crowd's line of sight, Ignis places a hand on Noctis’ shoulder, halting his movement. He adjusts his tie, assuring he would be as camera-ready as he could be. Noctis is kinda glad he can't see how he looks; from the brief look Ignis and Gladio share, it's not as good as he would’ve liked. He just hopes he'll be far away enough, or that all the attention will be on his dad, so that no one will notice.

Ignis checks his watch again, and sighs wearily. “Are you quite sure, Noct? It's not too late to forget about this. Your father will understand, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” Gladio says beside him. “And we’ll figure out the nobles later.”

As tempting as it is… he's made his mind up. He would regret giving in now.

“No, I'm good,” Noctis lies, though he's sure they can see right through it. “It's gonna be fine.”

“Right,” Gladio says incredulously. “Remember the deal – we’re leaving the second the speech is over.”

“‘Kay,” Noctis replies slightly absentmindedly. He has an eye on the stage, and while he can't see it too well where they're standing, he can hear the Mayor speaking, working up to introduce the Crown Prince and King.

“Prince Noctis,” a voice calls from the sidelines. “Please proceed onto the stage, Your Highness.”

“Alright,” Noctis says, offering a small wave to Gladio and Ignis. “See you guys later.”

Turning away, he proceeds up the few steps to the stage, seeing his father on the other side. Putting on the best Princely demeanour he can, he waves politely to the crowd, keeping his face neutral, and takes his position towards the back of the stage. Regis approaches the podium set up at the front and glances at Noctis briefly, his gaze lingering almost a little too long, features ever so slightly pinched, before he’s forced to begin the speech, addressing the crowd with a warm smile and an even tone.

Thirty minutes. That’s it.

Chapter Text

Lights suspended above the stage shine uncomfortably bright, forcing him to work hard so he wouldn’t noticeably squint in front of the crowd. The incessant light also helpfully rouses his headache, bringing it back to life as it pounds behind his eyes. There’s no way to keep track of time, so Noctis tries to distract himself as best he can while also keeping up the illusion that he’s fine – which he’s now admitting was an absolutely stupid statement that is not true in the slightest. He allows himself to think about going back to the apartment, wrapping himself in a load of blankets and napping on the couch, the room comfortably dark and warm. Maybe Ignis might make him some soup or something if he has some time – Noctis could probably try making it himself if not. It’s a nice goal to focus on but Noctis forces himself back to the present; people will catch on if he zones out too much.

Supposedly, time continues to move forward, though to Noctis everything seems to be slowing down, seconds turning into minutes and the world moving through thick, viscous mud. His suit is inarguably well-made and on a good day, would be a perfectly fine thing to wear even for an extended period of time. Now though, it digs into his skin, the layers tight and unyielding, restricting and almost claustrophobic. Combined with the heat from the many spotlights, he’s uncomfortably warm, and he sighs in discomfort before catching himself, hoping to the Gods no one noticed. He looks out into the crowd and is pleased when no one catches his eye – they’re all completely engrossed in the King’s address. Perfect.

But his head continues to protest as he stands there, constant camera shutters and flashes sending a spike of pain through his skull every time they go off from all sides. He tries to take calming, measured breaths, attempting to relax and withstand. Alarmingly, he feels his chest moving a little too fast, and absentmindedly, his fingers twitch and tense, wanting to instinctively tangle themselves in the smooth material of his shirt. He can’t get enough air in and the realisation terrifies him, because holy shit, collapsing here would be catastrophic. No. Relax. Slow down, don’t panic. Breathe, hold, release. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Repeat. Just how Ignis taught him.

His racing heart begins to slow as he breathes, and he forces his tense muscles to relax, trying to play the episode off. No one is looking. He’s fine.

He allows himself to shoot a quick look to the side of the stage, briefly catching sight of Ignis and Gladio who are both staring at him, giving him looks. Okay, maybe he wasn’t keeping it together perfectly, but it’s likely that no one else is looking at him as intently as them, the borderline stalkers that they are.

He coughs quietly, bringing his fist up to cover his mouth. His chest spasms and he coughs again – he can see the Mayor glance over from the other side of the stage. Not good. He suppresses the next cough, ignoring how in doing so, his lungs protest and his eyes burn, tears pricking at the corners. The tie around his neck feels like a noose, cutting off his airway as he silently chokes for air. Clearing his throat as silently as possible, he continues his attempt at breathing evenly, praying that his body will listen to him for once.

His throat stings, unhappy with Noctis’ insistence on doing the opposite of what his body wants, but eventually, after what feels like eons, his lungs calm down and the attack passes, allowing him to blink back the residual tears in his eyes. 

Gods, this was a terrible idea. Not that he’d admit that to Ignis and Gladio; they’d never let him hear the end of it.

The lights continue to shine down on him and he can feel his cheeks starting to heat up while at the same time, an eerie chill settles on his spine, cold sweat trickling down his neck and back. His hands feel clammy and he resists the urge to wipe them on his dress pants, instead connecting them behind his back, squeezing them together as if that will solve anything. He feels sick now, nauseous sick, so he tenses his jaw and ignores the sweat beading on his forehead. He can tell he probably looks pretty pale at this stage, but with any luck, the cameras are all focused on his dad. 

Truthfully, he hasn’t listened to a word of the speech, too busy trying to keep it together to pay much attention. Taking another breath, he glances at the back of his father, focusing on his voice. Resolutions… new beginnings… yes! He could almost cry at the familiar words – the speech is coming to a close, finally.

It couldn’t have come soon enough. He feels… wrong. The world starts to blur and he blinks to focus it again – it’s almost over, can’t give up now. His dad’s voice, the applause of the crowd, hundreds of camera shutters, they all blend together into an echoey mess; he’s lightheaded, brain filled with cotton and static sounding in his ears. How he’s still standing, he has no idea, because the increasing dizziness has him struggling to pinpoint anything in front of him, too much motion making it a herculean challenge. He feels like a child in admitting it, but… he just wants to go home.

He chances an admittedly distressed glance at Ignis and Gladio, feeling as if he could collapse right here and just wanting – needing – a hand, someone to have his back. No matter how dumb it sounds, and how embarrassing it is, he feels too shitty to care.

There’s movement all around him – the address must finally be over, nobles heading for the afterparty and everyone else heading home. Everything sounds like it’s coming from underwater, and the sudden onslaught on his senses is overwhelming– people are coming closer and they’ll want to speak with him, shake his hand, citizens might want pictures and he’ll have to take them, it’ll be suspicious if he doesn’t– 

The lights are blinding and he can’t see clearly, it’s going so blurry and the world is starting to spin– 

He can’t breathe but he can’t lose control now, he feels so sick and his legs are shaking, struggling with his weight and weakened from a bad night’s sleep – and he is furious with himself when he feels wetness in the corners of his eyes because he’s not a damn infant but it’s too much, he can’t, he doesn’t know where–

And then, he’s pressed against something warm, solid. It supports him, taking the weight off his tired legs and steadying him even with his spinning surroundings. It’s… of course it is– Gladio is there, blocking him from the crowd and everything else, steering him off the stage and away from any potential onlookers. He has an arm discreetly wrapped around Noctis’ back – to anyone else, it would look like he’s just guiding him in the right direction, but in reality, he’s probably the one thing keeping Noctis upright at the moment, strong arms keeping him secure and safe from the world.

“I’ve got you,” Gladio rumbles, quiet enough that only Noctis can hear. “You focus on putting one foot in front of the other – we’ll get you home.”

Easier said than done with the way he seems to be barely able to walk straight.

They descend the few stairs down from the stage and then Ignis is there, coming up on his other side and guiding them towards the car.

“Are you alright, Noct?” Ignis says under his breath, nodding politely to the few people they pass on the short walk.

“N-no…” Noctis admits. Lies are for people who aren’t about to collapse. And maybe by telling the truth, Gladio and Ignis can help. He’s sure they’d appreciate the opportunity. “M’boutta… gonna… pass out… I think.”

“Almost there, buddy,” Gladio says, tone soft. “Just hang on.”

Black spots pepper his vision and his head lolls side to side with each wobbly step he takes – thank the Astrals that they’re heading in the opposite direction of everyone else. From the looks of him, someone could easily assume he’s drunk. And wouldn’t that be a story for the papers? 

He feels so floaty and the world doesn’t quite seem real, the way it shifts and morphs right before his eyes. Cotton and static fill his head and his eyelids flutter, a sudden chill enveloping his body. His legs stop responding and, between flashes of complete blackness, he sees himself dropping like a stone, not hitting the ground but coming close, head spinning and then, nothing at all.

The next time he opens his eyes, it takes him a few slow blinks to register that first, he’s sitting in the backseat of the car, the door open next to him, and second, that his dad is crouched in said open door, looking intensely concerned. Which… if what he thinks happened did in fact happen, is fair enough.

“Noctis?” Regis says, voice at a whisper like he’s afraid to wake him. “Say something, please.”

“D-dad?” Noctis responds, words slurring. He’s too tired to care, though. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

Regis’ eyes soften and he runs a hand through Noctis’ hair, pushing it back off his forehead. “I am checking on my son. My son, who is not only extraordinarily ill, but is here instead of resting in bed.”

“The party…” Noctis trails off, his fuzzy brain taking a moment to realise that his dad being here means he’s missing from the event.

“I don’t particularly care about that, Noctis,” Regis states calmly. “I’ll get Clarus to think up an excuse for my absence.”

“No…” Noctis says, shaking his head slightly. “No, you– you can’t. You gotta go. They’ll… they’ll think somethin’s up…”

“I’m sure they will – and I’ll deal with that when necessary.” Regis doesn’t falter, and Noctis needs to make him understand before it’s too late.

“No,” he repeats, almost whining, frustrated. “If both of us aren’t there… they’ll know something’s wrong with me. I don’t… I can’t…”

“What?” Regis’ hand moves from Noctis’ hair to cup his cheek, the touch gentle. After a beat, understanding dawns in his eyes. “You’re concerned about the conclusions they’ll draw. Noctis–”

“They’re saying so much ‘bout me, Dad,” Noctis whispers. “It looks bad for you.”

“Noct,” Regis breathes, surprised. His eyes darken momentarily, a rare anger present and then gone in a flash. “Who is saying these things?” 

“I hear ‘em talkin’ outside the meetings…” Noctis continues. “The nobles… the court. Losin’ faith in me every day… I don’t want to fail you. Don’t wanna fail myself ‘fore I even start.”

Regis is quiet for a moment, eyes falling down to the ground. Then, “You could never be a failure to me, Noctis. However, the opposite can be true – I have failed in allowing this to happen at all under my roof. This… mindless gossip– it’s nothing more than venom spewed by weak men. Envious men desperate for and craving power. Their words mean nothing to me or anyone else with half a brain.”

“Still…” Noctis says. “S’not so easy to ignore… they need ammo. This is a perfect story, you know that. I… I came here so they wouldn’ have anythin’ to say.”

Regis sighs, hand falling to clutch Noctis’ cold one. “I understand, though it pains me to. I would like nothing more than to accompany you home and see that you recover well, however, I recognise your concerns. I’ll spare you the stress on this occasion and make my rounds at the reception.” He turns to Gladio and Ignis, who stand near the car, looking anywhere else to try give them a little privacy. “Please take care of him, boys.”

Gladio bows his head in respect. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“And I will provide regular updates, Sir,” Ignis supplies, giving him a solemn nod.

Regis loses a touch of his tenseness. “Thank you, Ignis, Gladio.” He turns back to Noctis, a somewhat sad look in his eyes. “You rest, and try not to worry, my son. After today… allow me to take care of those vultures. I must remind them of their place, and of the respect I expect to be shown to my family and staff.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Noctis mumbles, exhausted from the conversation and the relief that he won’t wake up to an article about how he’s terminally ill or something.

“Sleep now,” Regis says, fastening Noctis’ seatbelt around him. “Let no worries disturb your rest.”

His mission complete, Noctis sees no reason to stay awake for a second more.

Sleep eludes him too soon when he jolts awake at the sound of a car horn blaring outside. He never sleeps as deeply or heavily as usual when sick – another one of the universe's curses against him. The car vibrates beneath him and it’s usually soothing, but he’s already feeling nauseous and it’s not exactly helping.

Impossibly, he feels worse than he did on the stage, though at least now he doesn't have to try and hide his misery. Knives stab into his head with every beat of his heart and the oppressive heat is unbearable and choking – he can't breathe properly. 

“Doing okay?” Gladio asks from beside him.

“H-hot… can’t– can’t breathe,” he shutters, panic beginning to claw up his throat as he grabs onto his tie, tugging at it, the only thought in his head being ‘get it off get it off get it off’. His heart picks up speed and he hates the feeling, because now his chest is rising and falling fast and it's still too damn hot–

“Hey, hey, take it easy,” Gladio says, and then the tie is loosening and lifting over his head, a couple of the constrictive shirt buttons around his neck coming undone as well. “Noct. Look at me.”

He does, and Gladio is watching him closely, completely calm in the midst of his inner turmoil.

“You’re okay,” Gladio says seriously. “It’s just a fever, you know you react badly to them. You're fine.”

Noctis can't really believe that, not when his throat seems to be closing in on itself and his blood boils. “Can’t breathe, s’too hot…”

A window opens beside him, and Gladio speaks again, ever calm. “You can. Hey, eyes on me. Breathe slow, with me – same as always.”

Gladio takes an exaggerated breath and Noctis tries his best to follow along, his spinning head threatening to distract him from the routine.

“That's good, keep it going,” Gladio says. His hand is wrapped around Noctis’ wrist, and he has just enough conscious thought to spare to realise he's probably measuring his pulse.

Noctis follows Gladio’s direction, inhale, hold, release. And it's working, he feels less like he's about to die and more–

And then an inhale catches in his throat, interrupted by a deep, painful cough that wracks his body, and then another, and another. It doesn’t stop, leaving him gasping where he sits, tears falling down his cheeks as his lungs protest.

It seems like hours until the coughs mercifully subside, allowing him to finally take a ragged inhale. A hand rubs circles on his back and he lets his head fall back onto the seat, groaning weakly when he swallows and his already-sensitive throat feels absolutely shredded by the attack.

“Holy fuck, Ig, he’s burning up,” he hears Gladio say, then, “Almost home, Noct, you’ll feel a lot better there.”

Gladio’s thumb wipes away the lingering tears and Noctis blinks slowly, wiped out from the coughing fit.

“You can have anything you want when we get there,” Gladio says, arm rubbing up and down his spine. “Just name it.”

“Sleep,” Noctis mumbles, barely awake at this point.

He feels Gladio chuckle against him. “C’mon, be a little creative.”

Noctis sighs, searching his brain for things he associates with being sick. “Iggy makes this… this soup.”

“That's more like it. Iggy, you hear that?” Gladio says, turning his head forward.

“I did,” Ignis’ voice comes from the driver’s seat. “I'd be happy to make some.”

“‘kay,” Noctis says, sinking further into the seat, not feeling up for more conversation.

He drifts, tired eyes watching the world go by outside the car window, and allows the breeze to cool his burning face even a little. Hypnotised by the slow motion of the clouds in the sky, his heavy, slightly stinging eyes fall closed, and he lets himself fall under, safe beside Gladio.

Gods, he’s never been so tired. His head hurts, his chest hurts, his throat hurts – his whole body aches. And it’s hot, but he’s cold too. It doesn’t make any sense. 

He can’t see. Why?

He peels open his eyes, and things start to come into focus. His desk. His wardrobe. He’s lying in his own bed.

Last thing he remembers… the speech?

Oh, shit, the speech. He can’t miss it. Because… there was a reason, he’s sure of it. Just because. It’s… it’s important.

He pushes himself up to sit, arms shaking. A couple of lukewarm bags fall off him when he does and he pokes at one, noticing the weird squishy texture. Ice packs… they’re ice packs. He blinks once, twice, three times, eyes sore – he wants to go back to sleep. But that’s not an option. He twists so his legs hover just above the floor and in one wobbly motion, he’s on his feet.

Now. To the kitchen.

A sudden chill has him trembling as he stands there but that’s okay.

He takes a step forward and is displeased when he sways dangerously, body not correcting itself and gradually tipping over, leaving him powerless to stop the inevitable… crash.

He lies on the floor, a weak cough escaping him as he tries to get up again, because… because… where is he trying to go? Should he stand up, or… maybe he could just… sleep.

Before he can decide, the room fills with light and he covers his eyes with a shaky hand, peering up at the source.

His door is wide open and Gladio and Ignis stand at the entrance, eyes widening in sync when they see him there. For a second, no one moves, and then they exchange a brief look before they’re quickly at his sides, hefting him up to sit on the side of the bed.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Ignis asks, scanning him up and down. “Where were you going? Do you need anything?”

The questions bounce around his head and he can’t think of an answer fast enough before Gladio is speaking, a hand on Ignis’ shoulder.

“Let’s just relax for a sec. Noct,” he says, “do you know where you are?”

“Home,” Noctis replies. “My room.”

Gladio nods approvingly. “And what’s the last thing you remember?”

Noctis thinks, flashes of light and sound materialising and disappearing in his head but he can’t pinpoint what they are, not entirely.

“Need to go to the speech..?” he says, words trailing off into a question because he can’t actually remember, honestly.

“The speech is over – you already went. We took you back here because you were feeling sick,” Gladio explains plainly, and the pieces start coming together for Noctis.

Yes… the stage, the bright lights, the headache, he remembers being there. It all gets fuzzy after the end of the speech, though. His brain feels like soup.

“What’s wrong with me?” Noctis asks, glancing between the two of them.

“Well, at the moment, you have a high fever,” Ignis says. “That’s proving to be the main source of trouble.”

“A fever,” Noctis repeats blankly. “Okay.”

And then he’s moving to stand because he feels he should. Does he have somewhere he needs to be? Maybe.

“Hey, woah,” Gladio says, halting his movement and pushing him back down. “Stay here for a second, alright?” He grabs Ignis’ arm and they move towards the door, leaving Noctis, if it was possible, even more confused. If they were going somewhere, he should probably be going somewhere too – it’s just common sense.

“Where are you going?” he questions, not wanting to be left out of the loop.

Gladio turns back to him, a hand out as if to stop him moving. “We’re just gonna talk right here at the door, will only take a minute – stay there for me, alright?”

“Okay,” Noctis concedes, flopping back to lie flat on the soft surface.

He listens to them talk, kinda too tired to fully comprehend what it means and how it applies to him, but it’s still something to do. He stares at the ceiling, lazily blinking but otherwise motionless.

“So, delirious, then,” Gladio says in a low voice.

Ignis hums. “Yes, well, it’s not as if it was unexpected. Fevers always wreak havoc on him – this seems to be no exception.”

“Can’t leave him on his own like this,” Gladio continues. “We’ll move him out to the couch, keep an eye on him until it breaks.”

“Right.”

Noctis is focusing on a tiny crack in the paintwork of the ceiling when Ignis and Gladio pop back into his view, standing over him like giants.

“Hey there,” Gladio says, an easy smile on his face.

Noctis closes and reopens his eyes, allowing his vision to focus properly. “Hi.”

“How about we move to the front room, have you settled on the couch?” Ignis suggests. Sounds nice, but it’s also nice here. Ignoring how hot his room is.

“Why?” Noctis asks, punctuating the question with a light cough. Moving takes effort, and he’s not too sure if he has the energy for it.

“Uh…” Gladio says. “Better airflow?”

“Airflow,” Noctis returns flatly. Airflow… that might mean the heat won’t be so intense. Checks out. “Okay.” He sticks his hands up, trusting that they’ll help him get there.

They swap unreadable looks before softening, reaching down to pull him up, supporting him between them. His balance is off and he knows if they let him go, he’s going back down to the floor. Not fun the first time, and it won’t be the second time.

“Don’t let go, ‘kay?” Noctis says seriously, taking one wobbly step at a time.

“Of course not,” Ignis reassures him.

“Cause I’ll fall over,” Noctis presses, just making sure they understand the gravity of it all.

Gladio turns his head slightly towards him. “We won’t let go, Noct.”

“Okay, but if you did, I would fall.”

“We understand the situation,” Ignis replies, looking straight ahead.

Noctis looks at Gladio, who seems to be pointedly looking at the floor, eyes shining.

Noctis frowns. “Am I too heavy?”

Gladio’s shoulders shake but he doesn’t say a word, and it’s slightly worrying so Noctis turns his attention to Ignis instead.

“Is he gonna drop me?”

“No, I won’t let him,” Ignis says, voice light.

They continue down the hall and into the living room, the open blinds allowing too much brightness in.

“I would fall if he did.”

Gladio snorts at that and Noctis can only stare with alarm.

On his other side, Ignis huffs a breath, smiling. “Shut up, Gladio.”

Noctis resigns himself to walking forward – he doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, and he finds that he’s okay with that.

He’s herded to the couch and happily, he drops down onto it, lying down and curling into a ball. The walk over was tiring – time for sleep.

“Don’t sleep just yet,” Ignis says, crouching down so he’s in Noctis’ line of sight. “Tell us how you’re doing so we can help.”

“Um… it’s hot, I guess,” Noctis says, concentrating on how each part of him feels. “Head hurts, s’too bright.”

Seconds later, the room darkens considerably and Noctis sighs, the throbbing in his skull letting up a little.

“Here,” Gladio says, handing Ignis a bottle of water. “Lots of fluids.”

Twisting the cap off, Ignis offers the water to Noctis, looking at him expectantly.

“What does water taste like?” Noctis wonders aloud. He leans up on his elbow and takes the bottle, swirling it around slowly, watching the way the liquid moves.

“...Water.”

Noctis nods in consideration, bringing the water to his lips and taking a small sip. Realising just how thirsty he is, he takes a few gulps more, only stopping when Ignis puts a hand on the bottle, preventing him from moving. 

Before Noctis can voice his confusion, Ignis holds out two pills in his hand.

“With any luck, they should help with the fever and headache,” he explains, dropping them into Noctis’ hand. “At least somewhat, in any case.”

Wordlessly, Noctis pops them into his mouth, washing them down with some more water – a wave of exhaustion hits him as soon as he does, and he hands off the bottle to Ignis, fully intent on sleeping as long as he can. He closes his eyes, not having the energy to keep them open anymore.

“Get some rest,” Ignis says quietly.

Noctis shifts, and frowns, peeling open his eyes again to stare at the t-shirt he’s wearing, and in another revelation, the sweatpants on his legs. He doesn’t remember changing out of that suit, but maybe he did? Is it possible for the suit to have fallen off at some point?

Fighting off the encroaching darkness, needing to get the answer, he speaks, voice barely audible even to him. “When… when’d I put these on..?”

Out of sight, he hears Gladio’s voice. “Don’t worry about it, Noct. Go to sleep.”

Good enough.

Sleep takes him quickly, the hot and cold tendrils running simultaneously along his spine not deterring his mind from shutting off.

Chapter Text

Noctis sits at the dining table, Ignis and Gladio sitting across from him and chatting amongst themselves – he can’t bring himself to join in. There’s a sadness in him. He tries to eat, but his hand won’t move where it clutches a fork, heavy as lead and unresponsive. He opens his mouth to speak, to ask why he’s having such trouble, but nothing comes out, and Gladio and Ignis stand, moving as one, leaving him sitting alone. He turns his head, glancing around. He recognises the couch in the living room of his apartment, but then his bed from the Citadel sits in the centre–

Noctis walks down the street, following the noblemen of the court after the day’s meetings have ended. They turn down an alley and so does Noctis, wrinkling his nose as they enter a building stinking with cigarette smoke and mold. They all sit down at the poker table and a knot of anxiety finds its way into his stomach because he doesn’t know how to play. Terms are thrown around in every direction and none of it even sounds real – he looks down at his cards but can’t make out what they say, the pictures and numbers swirl and melt before his eyes. When it’s his turn, everyone is silent, staring at him unblinkingly, waiting for him to do something, anything and he tries to apologise, to tell them he’s trying but he’s confused and–

The sun sets, casting orange light over him. He’s running with Prompto, legs growing tired with every step. It feels like he’s sprinting through waist-high water or mud because it’s an incredible challenge to move forward – Prompto is miles ahead, only a speck in the distance now. He calls out to him, hoping he can hear and let him catch up, but he’s panting and then he’s coughing, coughing, coughing–

His eyes snap open and he hears a rasping gasp followed by a terrible, rattling, cough, and all of a sudden he can’t breathe. He jolts upright, bringing a hand to his neck. Harsh coughs tear through his throat and his lungs spasm and seize, expelling air faster than he can get it in – his eyes refuse to focus so he’s helpless to the steadily blurring world around him, instinctual tears falling down his face. There’s a sudden contact on his shoulder, keeping him from falling back down again, and he squeezes his eyes shut, hacking into the air. The pain in his head, chest and throat ramps up and he lets out a strangled, choking cry which only makes him cough harder, leaving him fighting desperately to get air into his lungs.

Blood rushes in his ears and black spots start to swim in front of his eyes when he reopens them and panic begins to set in because there doesn't seem to be an end in sight, he just can't stop, and it's still so hot and confusing, he barely feels awake and he wishes he wasn't at all.

There’s no way to tell how long it lasts, but finally, not a second too soon, he gets a two-second break in between coughs, which grows to five, then ten. He takes ragged, hungry inhales through his mouth, unsure if the torment is over yet. As the air brings him back to life, the once blurry shapes that make up his surroundings begin to take form, and he realises that Gladio is sitting on the side of the couch, right in front of him, holding his shoulder and keeping him upright.

“Noct?” Gladio says softly, not letting go.

Noctis doesn’t reply. Completely exhausted, he leans forward, resting his forehead on Gladio’s shoulder, and tries to quell the trembling of his whole body. He feels Gladio place a hand on the back of his neck – it's cool to the touch, which is blessedly different from the heat he can tell is radiating from him.

Gods, the pain in his head has only amplified since the last time he was awake, which was… he’s not sure. It’s still mostly dark in the room. Doesn’t matter too much. He lets his eyes wander and looks down, only now noticing the thin blanket pooled at his waist, and melted ice packs laying around him and on the floor, disrupted from their positions by the attack.

“Noct.”

Turning his head, he sees Ignis in front of the couch, eyes filled with concern.

“Are you alright?”

“Hurts,” he rasps, voice breaking, and then there is an open bottle of cool water – not too cold, though – in his hand. He takes a small, tentative sip and despite the sting when he swallows, the chill helps to soothe his tortured throat.

He’s tired after a few sips so he hands the bottle back, not making any moves to lay back down again. His eyes ache whenever he dares to blink and on every inhale, he feels his lungs rattle, as if daring him to aggravate them. Now that the breathing thing is mostly sorted out, the fever grabs his attention as it continues burning him from the inside out. He half groans, half moans, still slumped against Gladio and thoroughly miserable.

“Take it easy,” Gladio says, beginning to rub gentle circles on his back. “You’re okay. Just try to relax, no rush.”

All Noctis can think about is the heat. Gladio, usually like a furnace on any other day, is cold now, and he feels the sweat, both dry and fresh, soaking into his shirt and adding to the discomfort.

“Let me replace the ice packs,” Ignis says, gathering up the useless, warm ones, and retreating to the kitchen. He can’t do it quick enough.

He can’t stick it. The heat threatens to melt his brain and his eyes, turn his body to ash, and it’s suffocating, each breath of too-hot air a challenge in and of itself. Despite the fire, his body shakes, and that doesn’t play well with his steadily aching muscles. He just wants it to stop. Needs to feel that chill. He lies heavily against Gladio, half-lidded eyes staring at nothing, his barely conscious brain not registering the thrum of magic that snakes through the air.

It’s only when Gladio pulls back suddenly with a curse, still supporting him but looking at him with thinly disguised panic, that Noctis notices what’s happening.

He stretches his fingers out, staring at the crystalline helices of ice that are beginning to crawl up his hand. Cold. Blissful, icy, cold. It’s mesmerising and he watches, captivated, as ribbons of ice slowly skate across his skin, a stark contrast to the inferno consuming the rest of his body.

Noctis’ eyes are torn from the sight when Gladio puts his thumb under his chin, tilting his head up and forcing his attention away from the cold.

“Hey, hey,” Gladio says, supporting Noctis’ head even as it lolls to the side. “You have to stop, okay? Hear me? You gotta stop.”

Noctis frowns, not comprehending what Gladio wants him to do.

“Shit. Ignis–”

“Astrals,” Ignis breathes, suddenly next to the couch again. He has things in his arms which are unceremoniously dropped to the floor as he crouches down. 

The cold continues its slow trail, starting to wind around his arms. It’s nice.

“Noct.”

Noctis exhales slowly, noticing the way his breath crystallises in the air. His head pounds.

“Noctis, listen to me,” Ignis says, voice serious, and then he’s right in front of him, and something tells Noctis that this is important somehow.

Still very much being supported by Gladio, Noctis does his best to muster all the attention he can. “Hm?”

“You have to stop doing magic, Noct,” Ignis says, and then he says it again.

Magic?

“Wha’?” Noctis manages, body beginning to shake more vigorously than before.

“You’re doing raw, elemental magic – it’s too dangerous. It’s going to hurt you,” Ignis explains simply, and it takes a second for the cogs to click into place.

He’s doing this? The cold? Raw magic… that’s bad. Very bad.

He must make a panicked noise or something because Gladio squeezes his shoulder lightly. “Just focus and clear your head – you’re fine.”

“And you can have these instead,” Ignis says, holding up one of the things he had dropped earlier – it's an ice pack, freshly chilled.

Noctis closes his eyes, isolating his magic and then further, finding the jagged, freezing wisps of ice that are pulsing and weaving through his body. Concentrating, he allows his magic to flow gently, wrapping around the cold and neutralising it, returning everything to its slow-moving, smooth, natural state. It’s not as easy to control as it normally is, and he has to try a couple of times before it seems like it's under wraps. He opens his eyes to see if it worked, and sure enough, where once there were tendrils of growing ice, only chilled, red lines of skin remain.

“I didn’ know I was doin’ it,” Noctis tries to explain, head spinning. He rests against Gladio again, what little energy he had now sapped by the unintentional display of magic.

“It’s alright,” Ignis says, holding one of his hands between his own, warming his chilled fingers. 

Gladio does the same with his other hand, and then Noctis is dozing, semi-awake but unable to gather the strength to do much of anything. Gods, he feels awful – how does he still feel so bad? He slept, and… and he drank water and took pills but none of it seems to have worked. 

A few minutes pass before Gladio speaks, voice low. “Should we be bringing him to the Citadel, Ig? To the medbay? He’s not getting any better.”

Noctis’ ears perk up at the mention of that place. He’s spent too much time there already, knows every white tile on the ceiling, every thread on those white sheets, the sterile smell that turns his stomach. No. He’s not going back there. He’d sooner take his chances on the streets – maybe he could warp away if they tried to take him.

Ignis sighs, considering. “If he doesn’t noticeably improve in the next six hours, we may not have a choice.”

“No…” Noctis protests weakly, eyes fluttering as he tries to plead his case. “No, please. Please don’t – don’t wanna go there, please don’t make me.”

“Hey,” Gladio rumbles, in a tone that suggests he didn’t realise Noctis was awake. “It’s alright; how about you get some rest, huh?”

Noctis shakes his head, swearing he can hear the beeping of the various machines he had to be hooked up to back then. “Don’t make me go. Please.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Noct,” Gladio continues, gently shifting Noctis so he’s lying flat on his back again.

The change of position makes it hard to stay awake, but the heat disrupts his attempts to sleep, so he floats somewhere between – the world grows blurry and fuzzy, continuing to fade in and out as he lies there, occasionally catching some words here and there but not processing them most of the time.

A sudden arctic cold hits his face and moves down his cheek, the sheer shock of it making him pull back slightly despite it feeling nice, actually. He cracks his eyes open to see Ignis, a cloth in hand, and then almost immediately closes them again, pure exhaustion winning out over curiosity. He floats for a while, but eventually, he sinks, falling deeper and deeper into heavy sleep.

Time moves slowly. Or fast.

When he drags his eyes open, things are not the same. People have moved, or the shadows look different,

It hurts. Everywhere. Aches, spikes of pain that come without warning.

His body is heavy, and he is too tired to try to move. He falls asleep.

And wakes up, head splitting in two. Distorted voices somehow reach his ears, words broken, some missing altogether.

“Need to… getting… I’ll contact…”

He opens his eyes and sees daemons, snakelike and winding, slithering up the walls, trailing across the ceiling. He opens his mouth to warn the others, but his voice fails and he inhales roughly instead. His hair is pushed back from his forehead and he knows no more.

Images play in front of his eyes, picture by picture, something about it all feeling like he’s watching himself from the outside. The story plays out, all blurry and slow, all aches and pain.

He drinks water, somehow mustering the strength for a few sips. Darkness takes over quickly, and then he’s back in the world, stomach rebelling, leaving him gasping and weak. It’s not long until the darkness returns to sweep him away once more.

“Sir… take him to…”

He hovers between consciousness and sleep, completely boneless as he lies there at the mercy of whoever’s around. He blinks up and finds himself staring into familiar eyes – eyes like his father’s, but…

Wait, yes, it is his father, somehow. It takes a few seconds for it all to register in his brain, but before Noctis can begin to express his confusion, he’s being offered a pill on an outstretched hand. Looking between it and his father’s worried gaze, he takes the pill, slowly popping it in his mouth. Defying the laws of gravity, his upper body is gently raised as a water bottle is placed against his lips. He gets the hint and takes a couple sips, swallowing the pill in the process. The action leaves him sapped of energy, and before he can say a single word, he’s lowering back down again and darkness creeps in around him, furthering his continual blissful unawareness of the world.

Noctis awakes to a smell that would probably be pretty pleasant if his body didn’t feel like it’s buried in sand, too heavy to even think about moving, if his head wasn’t pounding and his eyes burning, if he didn’t feel like he might throw up at the mere thought of food. 

“You need to eat,” someone says, voice quiet but too loud and now that his senses are waking up, he’s noticing that it’s all too loud – the rain hitting the window, the low hum of a fan, concerned whispers, everything. He blinks and his eyes ache and he wants to sleep again. Eating definitely does not fit into his survival plan right now.

“...n-no,” he replies weakly, holding up a shaky hand to emphasise the point. 

“Please, Noct,” the voice continues, a tinge of something sad in it. “Just a little bit.”

“Stomach hurts,” Noctis says quietly, every second of consciousness making him wish for a return to sleep.

There’s a brief pause before he hears the voice again. “Okay, that’s okay.”

He hears quiet rustling and some sort of clinking, and though he wants to know what it is, he also doesn’t. It all hurts.

“Here, take this.” 

Peeling open his eyes when he feels a pressure against his hand, Noctis manages to focus bleary eyes on a small pill in his palm. Just wanting to sleep, he slowly brings the pill to his lips, following it with a sip of water from a bottle that appeared out of nowhere. He feels heavy, light. Sleepy.

So he sleeps. 

Sleeps.

And sleeps. 

And every so often, whether it’s minutes or hours between, he is roused and given another pill, peace not arriving until he takes it and drifts off again.

Surprisingly, despite how he felt like death earlier, each time he awakes, he feels a little more like himself, a little more alive. He’s able to say a couple words when Ignis offers him some water, watching how his eyes flash in something close to relief. Another time, he finds the strength to stomach some soup – it's not a lot, but it’s better than nothing. Gladio ruffles his hair when he finishes eating.

When his eyes open again, he’s surprised that he’s able to breathe, the air around him seeming not to be as stifling as earlier. He coughs once, then twice, harsh but nowhere near the attacks he’d had before. 

He moves his head and almost jumps out of his skin when he spots Gladio sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch and apparently dozing. How long had it been since the speech?

Gladio. Noctis frowns when not a sound is produced, and clears his throat, trying again. “Gladio.” Better, if a little quiet. 

Gods, he feels gross. Sweaty.

Gladio startles, whirling around with a look of surprise. “Noct? You okay?”

“Yeah,” he responds, voice getting steadier by the minute. His head’s kinda fuzzy and he’s not exactly sure what’s been going on. Probably nothing good if the softening of Gladio’s eyes as he realises he’s actually properly conscious says anything. “What happened?” he settles on.

“What happened?” Gladio returns, eyebrow raised as if to say ‘you serious?’ “What happened is that you’ve been sick. Bad.”

Noctis winces, hearing the note of concern buried beneath Gladio’s usual gruffness. So it hadn’t been pretty. The flashes of memory he did have of the time since the speech match up to that description.

Gladio sighs, his shoulders losing some tension. “But for now, how’re you feeling?”

“Alright,” Noctis says, taking stock of himself. He can tell Gladio isn’t in the mood for any minimising right now. “Tired, I guess. Little achy.”

“Makes sense,” Gladio says with a hum.

They’re distracted by the conversation by the sound of the door opening and closing, Ignis appearing around the corner and looking between them both with wide eyes. 

“Noctis? Are you alright?”

“Never better,” Noctis says lightly. “Tired. Achy,” he repeats when Ignis’ eyes begin to narrow. 

“I see. In any case, you being fully conscious and speaking is very good progress,” Ignis says, some tension leaving him too. Noctis feels a twinge of guilt for having been the cause of their stress after… how long has it even been?

“Guess the pills worked,” Gladio says with a shrug at the same time as Noctis asks, “How long’s it been since the speech?”

“About a day and a half,” Ignis says, considering.

Noctis nods. Not great, but at least it wasn’t longer. His tired brain takes a minute to finally process Gladio’s statement before he speaks again. “Wait, what pills? I feel like I remember flashes or something– was my dad here?”

“He was,” Ignis starts. And finishes. Noctis holds back a sigh.

“Why? He should’ve been at the party,” Noctis presses, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice. The goal of everything he did was to try make sure no rumours got started – nothing should’ve been out of place. His dad being absent would have definitely raised eyebrows.

“You were really sick, Noct,” Gladio says seriously. “We were considering bringing you to the Citadel, let the doctors check you.”

A weight makes itself at home on Noctis’ lungs.

“But,” Ignis interjects, “The King called us before we had to make that choice. We told him how you were and he insisted on checking on you for himself.”

“You should’ve told him I was fine,” Noctis says, guilt clawing at his heart again. 

Gladio huffs. “You seriously wanted us to lie to the King? Besides, he’s as stubborn as you are; nothing we said could’ve stopped him from coming here.”

“He only stayed an hour or so,” Ignis adds, maybe reading into Noctis’ words. “He brought medicine from the Citadel – the proper stuff that works with your magic – and when you began improving, returned to the Palace. Begrudgingly, mind you.”

Tension left Noctis’ body at the clarification – only an hour wouldn't have been too suspicious.

“He’ll likely be coming around again soon,” Ignis continues, checking the time on his phone. “The morning’s meetings are ending in a few minutes.”

“Sounds good,” Noctis says, stretching his back. Damn, he needs a shower bad.

“Noct?” Gladio says, making sure to meet his eyes. “Don’t push yourself so hard again, huh?”

Noctis nods, taking in his friends’ tired appearances and the slowly lessening worry in their faces. “I’ll try not to. And… thanks for being here.”

“Of course,” Ignis replies, a soft smile on his lips. “Now, rest.”