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There have been plenty of people who randomly decided they wanted to be his friend. Lots of girls who randomly wanted to date him, too. At best, most of these people were in it for attention, prestige, social advancement. At worst, they represented what Gladio always called “Security threats” in his serious voice. Noctis didn’t have all that much interest in them anyways. Kids who tried to befriend him always smacked of… research. Like they’d looked up everything he liked (that the tabloids knew about) and tried to shape themselves to fit it perfectly. Slot in beside him.
Prompto didn’t feel manufactured like that. And he was interested in all kinds of shit Noct couldn’t care less about. He rambled about photography without end, eyes lit up, explaining how cool different exposures were, as if Noct would understand. He never did his tie up properly, his hair had a weird (permanent?) cowlick, and Noctis didn’t think he knew this, but his smile was kind of lopsided. Also, they’d been to the arcade a few times, and Prompto showed no hesitation absolutely wiping the floor with him.
“How’d you get so good?” Noct had asked, tossing the fake gun back into its holster. He had actual weapons training, which made it particularly embarrassing. He could imagine Gladio’s face. Prompto just shrugged, like he’d never thought he was that good.
“I have a lot of free time, I guess,” he said.
At the outset, it was easy to assume that Prompto’s scruffy appearance was by design. Out of uniform he had chains on his pants and various ripped-up articles of clothing Noctis found himself half-disgusted by and half-jealous of.
But as Prompto slid into his seat late for their homeroom, hair as tousled as usual, the thing that wasn’t usual was on his upper-arm, near his shoulder. It had rained yesterday. The school grounds were pretty muddy.
“Is that footprint ?” Even as he was asking, Noctis reached out to tug Prompto closer by the jacket, trying to make out the outline.
“Hah, what? No, I slipped in the mud,” Prompto said. “Hey, did you do the history questions? You can look at my math if you help me.”
“Your nose,” Noctis said, because he was looking at Prompto closely now, and there was dried blood on his upper-lip, or something awfully blood-colored. Prompto’s hand flew to his nose, and he pinched it shut, face flushing pink like he was embarrassed.
“Oh gods, I haven’t gotten a nosebleed since I was a kid,” Prompto said. Class started before Noctis could say anything else. But he found himself watching Prompto more closely, in sideways glances, when they walked together to the cafeteria. He’d been to the bathroom and come back with his jacket mostly clean by then. But Noctis remembered what he saw: a bootprint, a bloody nose.
[0]
He didn’t bring it up to Ignis, because he didn’t think all that much of it. It was possible that Prom got in fights, but he didn’t really seem like the type. Gladio, sure, was a barely restrained dude, and Ignis was “only-when-necessary” but Noctis had been around lots of people who built their life around fighting, often because it made the most sense, and Prompto didn’t strike him like that. So he chalked it up to clumsiness. There were facets of Prom it seemed like he was unwilling or unable to admit to. Not like the faux-people who tried to befriend Noctis for clout. Just like… a person, who has sides and secrets.
He wracked his brain trying to remember if Prom had been a clumsy kid. But so much of his childhood was blurred by rage and grief, memories mixed together like every flavor of soda in one cup, occluding all taste.
[1]
On Saturday, they go to the arcade, which is becoming a routine. Noct is coming back from the bathroom when he sees Prompto in front of the game they had been hogging, talking to someone. The guy is not that tall, sorta baby-faced. One of their classmates, although Noct doesn’t remember his name. It strikes him as sort of odd, because he didn’t really think Prom had any other friends. Which sounds messed up, and bad to think--it’s just that he doesn’t have any other friends. And he sort of assumed Prompto was the same. He’s debating if he wants to interrupt, when the guy pats Prompto’s cheek, and Prom flinches away.
Noctis kind of angles himself behind one of the machines on instinct. A kid fighting with a jammed coin slot gives him a weird look, but he ignores it, watching Prompto and the guy from class. He’s all up in Prom’s space, and Prompto just keeps his eyes fixed on the floor through the interaction. The guy snaps his fingers right in front of Prom’s face, and Noct has had enough. He marches over.
“Hey, sorry, there was a line! You wanna grab food?” he says, slinging an arm over Prom’s shoulders. Prompto’s expression is flooded with relief. The guy gives Noctis a calculating look, and then dips.
“What’s his deal?” Noctis asks. Prompto just shrugs.
“Uh, who knows. I thought we were gonna take one more shot at the high score?”
“Fine. And then food,” Noct agrees. He spares a glance for the guy on his way out the door.
At school on Monday, he finds him--he’s in the other first-year class, which explains why Noct doesn’t know his name (that and he’s bad with names). Prompto looks normal. Un-disheveled, or at least, his regular level of scruffiness. It’s not until Wednesday that Noct finds him in class roughed up again. There’s a faint bruise forming high on one cheekbone, and his cowlick looks particularly chaotic.
He tries to bring it up at lunch.
“Hey, uh, that guy Floris--” He’s learned his name by now. Prompto’s head snaps up, eyes wide. He almost drops his sandwich, and Noctis almost loses his nerve. “He seems like an asshole,” he presses on, because he wants answers, or something resembling them. Prompto’s expression slackens, and then clouds over again.
“I mean. He’s… kind of a dick, yeah.”
“Is he the one who put the bootprint on you?” Noctis says, and now Prompto does put down his sandwich, and refuses to make eye-contact. Is this fucking up? Noctis wonders. Is this, perhaps, not how you are supposed to support your friends? But he’s committed now, so he barrels ahead. “Why wouldn’t you just tell me?”
“Tell you what? Hey Noct, sometimes these dudes kick the shit out of me? It’s not really news, or anything. And it’s not your problem.”
“What if I want it to be my problem?”
“I--but--it isn’t.”
“Well. That’s for me to decide.” Next time , he thinks. I’ll be there . Admittedly, according to Gladio, he’s a total washout and can’t fight his way out of a paper bag, but he is in fact trained in bladed weapons, and if he really concentrates he can sort of teleport (although he’s really prone to fainting afterwards). And, he thinks, since people are always so hung up on him, if he just really publicly plays the part of Prom’s friend (which he is) maybe they’ll just leave him alone.
[2]
It’s a welcome change to see Noctis bringing a friend home. And Prompto is polite (if nervous), kind (if clumsy), and even occasionally steers them back to studying or completing homework. For Noctis, who is so often overwhelmed by apathy (and was even before he was a teenager) he seems like a good fit. But he’s somewhat… messy.
Prompto comes trailing in after Noctis and Ignis observes the wrinkles in his uniform, his loose tie, that ever-present cowlick. His shoes are battered to the point of being nearly unwearable. Most of this can be chalked up to youthful disregard for dress codes, Ignis will admit. He was raised to a much higher standard than Noctis’ classmates, and he has to remind himself of this.
It’s the third, maybe fourth time he meets him that he observes things he doesn’t like. The remnants of a bruise on Prompto’s cheek. A stain on the sleeve of his uniform--almost certainly blood. Ignis pulls the records from the school, in what might be considered an abuse of power, but it is in the best interests of the crown prince. He finds nothing of note besides a few unexplained absences. But Prompto presents as soft-spoken and bubbly, it’s not a stretch to think if he was involved in some sort of delinquent activities, he might have avoided being caught or punished.
It’s a Friday, spitting rain, when Ignis makes a determination. He has Gladio with him--Noctis is supposed to be training after school, and he is probably (as he often does) going to insist on bringing Prompto with him. Which Ignis doesn’t plan to protest. Until they are late. Until they are several minutes late, and then several more, and Ignis dials Noct but gets no response. And finally, finally , the two approach. Ignis is out of the car by now, because it is easier to look disappointed and severe while standing up. They approach and Ignis sees the new bruise, forming stark on Noct’s pale cheek.
“What--” he cuts himself off, eyes darting to Prompto, and his ever ruffled uniform. This , this is too much. The last straw. He was willing to overlook whatever bad habits Prompto might have, because Noct was finally coming out of his shell, finally smiling on occasion. But this. Now he’s dragged Noct into it. Unacceptable.
“In the car. Now,” he commands. Noctis tries to open his mouth. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.” he jabs a finger at the car. Gladio is watching, standing at the open passenger door. Ignis turns his attention to Prompto, who looks blank, unrepentant, more stunned than anything.
“Prompto. Good day,” he says, firmly, and closes the door on Noct as soon as he’s in the car. As they pull away he can see in the rearview that Noctis is twisted around, trying to catch sight of Prompto, and Ignis feels like he’s telling a toddler off for touching the stove, and he resents being made to feel that way.
“I don’t know what you were thinking, letting him get you into fights,” he starts, pieces of the lecture beginning to form and come into place. Noctis takes a sharp intake of breath and then punches the back of Ignis’ seat, hard.
“Stop the car,” he says. Not petulant, more panicked, which makes Ignis step on the brakes.
“Noctis--” he begins.
“You didn’t even let me--fuck. Either turn around or let me out,” he demands. He doesn’t sound like a toddler with his toy taken away. He is using a tone more apt for issuing royal commands, and Gladio glances into the back seat. “You didn’t let me explain anything!” Noctis snaps.
[3]
There’s not a lot to be done about this situation, but Prompto is beginning to realize his life is divided quite starkly into situations he can and cannot do something about. And with regards to the ones he can’t, he’s started to just lean in, and let the stream take him wherever it’s taking him. Even still, the instinct to run is very strong.
But he’s tried running, and he knows from experience it’s only delaying the inevitable. And they fought back this time, he and Noct--which he regrets, since Noct is in trouble now, and Prompto never meant to get him involved. But still, it felt kind of amazing to have someone stand up for him. Throw a punch for him. Get punched for him--that, he didn’t like. The car pulls away and Floris and his guys arrive moments after.
“Aw. The prince get tired of you?” he says. Prompto turns to face them. Don’t make a joke, he tells himself. It’ll only piss them off .
“I think he was sick of you, actually.” Not even a good line. Fuck. The first blow only doubles him over, but he’s on the ground before he knows it, taking kicks to the back. He covers his head, because he knows, now from experience, that trying to do schoolwork with a concussion (even a mild one) is a nightmare.
He keeps covering his face, even as he feels something inside him snap at a particularly heavy blow, and his vision goes white for a moment, and he can’t really hear over the rushing in his ears, and he thinks about how it’s kind of good that they’re just going for him, because he has his camera in his bag today like an idiot, and it’s the one thing he really doesn’t think he can live without.
And then the blows stop, very suddenly. He hears a raised voice, kind of high-pitched and panicked, and another one, so low it’s almost a growl.
And then someone’s hand is on his arm, and he flinches away, but he hears a familiar voice.
“Hey, it’s me!” And then softer, “Prom. You’re okay. It’s me. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t think they’d come back, but I should have--are you–can you look at me?”
He looks. It’s Noctis, with that bruise forming on his cheek, which makes Prompto kind of sick to look at, but it’s Noct’s expression that’s the most disturbing, a kind of half-smile which doesn’t reach his eyes at all, slightly pained.
“Y’okay?” Prompto slurs. Noct rocks back on his heels and lets out a totally mirthless laugh, and then he glances over at Ignis, who is standing once again beside the car, with his arms crossed, looking furious. Prompto feels a little swell of joy that Noct came back for him, even though Ignis is clearly furious about it. But then he remembers that he’s gotten Noct in trouble–maybe even more trouble, and he just feels sick.
“Me? Yeah dude, I’m literally fine. You think I’ve never been hit in the face before? Hell, Gladio’s hit me harder than that idiot.”
“No I haven’t,” Gladio grumbles. “Come on, let’s get you up.” And then, without much more warning, he takes Prom by the arm and pulls him to his feet.
Prompto is not one to brag, but he is personally impressed with himself for not throwing up. His vision goes weird at the edges, and he makes a fairly undignified sound, but other than that, he would say he handles it like a man.
“You good?” Gladio asks, and Prompto is already nodding, although he hasn’t really made a full assessment. Gladio frowns. “You’re bleeding,” he points out, gesturing to Prom’s hands. They actually hurt the least out of everything, to the point where he hadn’t even noticed. But it’s true: there are little chunks of gravel embedded in his palms, and there’s blood welling up.
“I swear, when I see those guys–” Noct starts, but he’s cut off by a stern look from Ignis. Not entirely deterred, he huffs loudly. “Well. I’m definitely reporting them to the school.”
“Yes, I will be making sure there is a complete report of this incident,” Ignis says, and Prompto cringes, because well, it’s not like he hasn’t tried complaining before, and it’s never done anything besides make teachers like him less. It also makes the perpetrators way angrier. But then again, he’s not the prince. Maybe–and it feels a bit unpleasant to even hope–but maybe things actually will be different this time.
“But in the meantime, I think we should get you home,” Ignis continues. Then he pauses, looking at Prompto with a slight frown. He purses his lips. “Or perhaps to a medical facility.”
“Oh, no, no need! I’m fine.” Prompto gives a thumbs-up to illustrate and doesn’t even blink when pain rips through his stomach. He does bite the inside of his cheek pretty hard, but he’s all but certain nobody notices. For a moment though, Ignis looks unconvinced, and Gladio takes a breath like he’s going to say something, and Prompto’s terrified that he’s going to have to come up with some sort of excuse, or worse , admit that there’s no chance he can afford to see a doctor right now, and even less chance of his mom picking up if he tries to call her about it.
But then Noctis (blessed, best friend, perfect Noctis) cuts in.
“Let’s just go back to my place. Iggy’s good with–” he waves a hand dismissively, “--antibacterial spray and all that stuff. You can get cleaned up. We’ll even start our homework. Right?” he says, and Prompto rushes to agree, because even better than getting him out of a horrible medical bill, this would rescue him from another night at his empty house, where he’s too tired and hurting to even go for a jog or work on fixing the dryer or anything else.
Ignis doesn’t argue (thank all the Astrals). So they pile into the car and head back to Noct’s place, Prompto so giddy with relief (or perhaps leftover adrenaline) that nothing even really hurts.
If only that lasted.
By the time they get back to Noct’s place, he’s become acutely aware of… well, everything, but weirdly the gravel embedded in his palms stings more insistently than the dull throbbing everywhere else. That being said, as they actually pull into a spot in the parking garage he’s hit by a wave of nausea that leaves him hunched over in the seat.
Noctis is saying something to him, he knows, and he wants to answer, but all he can focus on is not getting sick all over the upholstery.
Finally, fresh(ish) air hits his face, and Gladio leans into the car.
“You good? You gonna be sick?” he asks. He’s all business in a way Prompto finds kind of comforting. He grits his teeth and shakes his head: no. There’s no way he’s gonna puke, not in this parking garage, and certainly not in the car.
“Shall we?” he hears Ignis, and Noct retorts something that Prom can’t catch, but Gladio just offers him a hand.
“When you’re ready,” he says. So Prompto takes a breath in through his nose, not too deep, because it hurts to breathe, and lets Gladio help him out of the car.
The parking garage smells like spilled fuel and hot concrete, dry air. There’s a hint of blood too, but Prompto swallows and knows that’s just him.
[4]
Gladio doesn’t have anything against the guy. In fact, sometimes he thinks if they met under different circumstances, they might be… well. Not friends, probably. But they could probably be on okay terms. Prompto could be like… an appreciated barista, or something.
At least, he used to think that. Watching Ignis pick glass out of his hands while the guy barely flinches, he can’t help but feel a begrudging respect developing.
“You’re tougher than you look, huh?” he says, nudging Prompto’s shoulder, and the beam he gets back may as well have blinded him. He should come with a warning or something, Gladio thinks.
Noctis is… well, he’s not strictly sulking. He’s gotten his way, in a sense. But he’s clearly still mad. Alternating preening around the apartment with an air of slight smugness with sitting on the arm of the couch and backseating Ignis while he cleans and dresses Prompto’s hands.
“Noct, perhaps you could busy yourself with starting on your homework,” Ignis says eventually, tone pointed.
“Fuck homework,” Noct says. Gladio snorts, but gives him a stern look to match Iggy’s glare.
When Ignis finally finishes with him, Prompto seems vaguely antsy.
“Should I–I should take off, huh?” he says, eyes darting towards the door. Gladio arches a brow at him.
“Do you want to?” he says, but Ignis is already saying: “In the state you’re in?”
Gladio shares a look with him. It’s nice to be on the same page about this, at least.
“If you could just let your parents know you’ll be staying the night. I think it would be best for…” He glances at Noct but doesn’t say it.
“You’ll stay, right?” Noct asks. “Otherwise there’s no chance I’m doing my homework.”
And Gladio doubts they’ll be doing any homework anyways. But Prompto grins easily, and agrees to stay.
They eat a quick dinner. Gladio decides to kick it on the couch for a while. Maybe even sleep there. It’s a comfortable couch. And he doesn’t feel like heading all the way home when he’ll have to drive back to the Citadel in the morning, and Noct’s apartment is closer.
He’s several hours deep into a marathon of Altissian Epic Home Renos when he hears either Noct or Prompto emerge from the bedroom and tread a careful path down the hall to the bathroom. The light and fan flick on. He relaxes further into the couch.
After the toilet flush and the light shutting off he expects whoever it is to go back to Noct’s room. Ignis set up a futon in there for Prom to sleep on. But instead the footsteps come down the hall, into the main room of the apartment. And he looks to see Prom’s pale, freckled face. He looks paler, maybe. But he’s always pale. And in the low light, anyone would be washed out.
He also looks like he has something to say. Toying with the hem of a shirt borrowed from Noct. They’re the same size more or less, but Prom is just a bit gawkier.
“Hey uh. You work out a lot. And spar, and stuff,” Prompto says.
“Yeah.” Gladio isn’t really sure where he could be going with this. He waits. Prompto glances over his shoulder, as if to confirm Noct hasn’t woken up.
“You’ve peed blood, right?” Prompto says. Gladio’s brows were already raised, which is why his facial expression hardly changes. He cocks his head slightly to one side, in case he misheard.
“Sorry?”
“Like. You’ve peed blood, yeah? From getting kicked, and stuff.”
“No,” he says, and lets it hang. Prompto blows a breath out. He looks back towards the bedroom again.
“Okay,” he says finally. Gladio thinks about getting up. It’s a comfortable couch. The night, it feels, it about to take a turn he really won’t like. But fuck. He can’t act like Prom is nobody. Much as Gladio might like him to be. He just isn’t.
“How much blood?” he finally asks. And then Prompto hits the floor. He sees it coming. Enough so that he’s off the couch, but not in enough time to properly catch him. All he can do is throw out a hand to keep his head from hitting the floor.
Prompto must only actually black out for a second, because he’s apologizing and trying to sit up almost the instant he’s on the ground.
“Hey, just. Chill for a second,” Gladio tries.
“Sorry,” Prompto mumbles. Gladio holds back a sigh. From what Noctis managed to furiously explain, this kid’s been putting up with assholes kicking the shit out of him for months. And never bringing it up because he doesn’t want to cause trouble for the prince. Which. Sure, Gladio’s one of the first to bring up duty. He always will be. But there’s gotta be a limit somewhere. Surely that’s above and beyond.
Luckily, the fall was enough to wake up Iggy. He emerges from his room squinting and irritated, but his eyes go wide when he sees Gladio on the floor supporting Prom.
“What happened?” he asks.
“We have to get his kidneys checked out,” Gladio says. “He’s peeing blood.”
“Not a lot. I don’t think,” Prompto mumbles.
“I suspect I won’t like the answer but. Why wouldn’t you say something?” Ignis asks. Prompto gives a one shoulder shrug.
“Didn’t think it was that bad.” His voice is small. Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose. While he goes to get dressed or wake Noct or whatever else, Gladio hauls Prom up onto the couch.
“Lemme see,” he demands. Prompto glares at him. Ah. That’s what Gladio likes about him really. He’s not all self-effacing. There’s this iron backbone that shows itself from time to time. Still, he’s a shrimp. Gladio yanks up his shirt while Prompto yelps. All he can do is suck a breath in at the sight of Prompto’s chest.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that much black and purple concentrated.
“Astrals. What did they do to you?” he asks.
“Is it really that bad?” Prompto asks. He sounds like a kid, which is extra disturbing. Like Iris, when she’s wheedling dad for something.
“It’s not good,” Gladio manages. There’s a lot he wants to ask. Who made you think this was okay? Why wouldn’t you say something? Why are you so afraid to take up space? Why do you wear your body like a borrowed thing? Can I trust you? Please, can I trust you, because I want you to be okay.
He doesn’t say any of that. But he does hold Prompto’s hand when they put the IV in at the hospital. How he didn’t blink at Ignis and the tweezers but gagged at a single needle, Gladio cannot understand in the slightest. But he wants to. He meets eyes with Noctis, who is drawn and furious and tormented, clearly. And he finally gets it. This is why you want him so bad. This is why he’s the one you finally made friends with.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he tells Prom, when they finally leave the hospital, and the sky is turning pre-dawn blue.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Prompto says, cracking an easy grin. Gladio meets Noct’s eye for a moment. Okay , he thinks. This one, then .