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“Noct!” Prompto’s voice echoes on the sprawling rock walls of Fodina Caestino around them, and an irritated huff of breath leaves the Crown Prince as he digs his heels into the ground. He’s sick of hearing his name. “Wait up!”
“I’m exhausted,” he lobs over his shoulder, tone tinged with annoyance he doesn’t attempt to conceal. Another sigh answers in return, but he doesn’t turn around to acknowledge it. “Let’s camp here.”
“Here?” Prompto balks. Noctis doesn't bother with a confirmation before he crests the hill to the top. He’ll follow. Everyone will always follow.
They’ve been stuck here for almost a full day already. Dark, wet walls drip into stagnant swamp water, and deep green moss clings to the massive roots that sprawl beneath their feet. He’s soaked up to his knees, they all are (except Gladio whose knees are a full six inches higher than the rest of them), and Noctis can’t feel his toes anymore. They’ve only just managed to find the spare key for the generator, and there’s no telling how much of this horrid place lies before them until they finally reach the tomb. He doesn’t want to fight anything else tonight, not with the moon creeping up into the sky and the daemons far stronger as of late. Plantagh Haven will have to do for the night.
“You got a better idea?” Noctis snaps, throwing a glare behind himself. Prompto’s shoulders slump just enough for him to notice, and his irritation knits with the guilt brewing in the base of his chest. The acidic look Gladio levels at him doesn’t help. Noctis wishes he’d gone numb to that instead of the fucking swamp water.
“I would rather appreciate some rest as well.” Ignis’ voice is smooth, controlled. Noctis would never guess he’s been blindly traipsing around for the better part of twelve hours. Then again, that was the point, wasn’t it? The problem. Ignis never voiced when he was reaching his breaking point until he’d snapped, and now the stakes for anticipating that feel much, much higher. He poses a much bigger hazard to himself now than ever before.
His declaration settles the debate without anything further. Gladiolus brings up the rear of their party, and Noctis can’t summon the courage to meet his eyes as he materializes his bag from the Armiger and thunks it onto the ground. Their argument has been replaying in his head all day. Very rarely have they ever shouted at each other. Gruff as he may seem, Gladio’s soft at heart. It feels terrible to fight, especially compounded with everything else going on. These guys are all he has to lean on now. Stupid arguments feel so much worse now when any day could be their last.
Noctis finds he’s not very useful in setting up camp. Gladio usually takes care of it all, but he spits demands at the Prince for help, and Noctis’ breath shoves out of him in a rush as he catches the stakes he tosses against his chest. It’s harder than he expects to pound them into the ground, and he grunts with effort and uses his whole body weight to seat them.
His breath shudders out of him as he heaves. His shoulders ache already, and his throat burns from how hard he’s panting. “Maybe you’d be better off if you got off your royal ass and helped before you were forced to.” Gladio’s tone is harsh and cutting, and Noctis doesn’t attempt to conceal the angry furrow to his brows as he throws a glare towards him.
“I know how to do it!” he shouts back, whirling to face him. His hand shakes where it’s clenched around the handle of the mallet, so tight his knuckles ache, and his jaw’s sore from grinding his teeth. Gladio barely glances at him, and it just stokes the anger bubbling in him. “Don’t be an asshole!”
There’s no answer. Metal clangs against metal as Gladio pounds his final stake into the rocky ground, and then he stalks off to fetch the tent from the bottom of his canvas bag. His footfalls are heavy and angry, pummeling deep into the earth.
Nobody says a word. Noctis huffs out a sharp breath, shakes out his shoulders, and twists on the balls of his feet to hammer in the last few tent poles. At least he has to focus his thoughts a bit so he doesn’t break his fingers. He doesn’t need his mind dwelling on Gladiolus right now. His stomach is in knots, and reliving every moment of their tense conversations isn’t helping.
He’s sweating by the time they get the tent up. He didn’t think it was possible, it’s fucking freezing in here now that the sun’s gone down, and with the disgustingly smelly water soaked into his clothes, he’s chilled straight to the bone. The perspiration he wears has gone cold and tacky along the length of his spine, and when he mutters about how hot his skin feels, Gladio says nothing. Guess he’s keeping the jacket.
The tension cloaking them is thick and unbelievably uncomfortable. Prompto attempts conversation that doesn't lead anywhere as they get the fire going, and Ignis shuts his eyes and leans back heavily in his chair. Noctis can barely bring himself to look at him. The guilt of letting him come with is eating him alive, but he couldn’t force him to stay behind. Ignis can make his own choices, whether or not they’re advisable ones. Still, he’s clearly been struggling, and with every fight brings new challenges. New opportunities to be killed in a fucking swamp.
Darkness settles around them fully as they dig at the bottoms of chilled tin cans with their spoons. It’s the worst tasting dinner they’ve had in months and made even more horrible by the awkward distance between them all. Noctis wishes he’d stocked up on cup noodles, but when Gladio levels a glare at him from across the fire, he decides this shit is better. Assholes don’t deserve Nissin cup noodles.
“I’m goin’ to bed,” Noctis mutters, rising from his creaky chair with his eyes on the ground. He’s still hungry, but the sour mood is ruining his appetite. Nobody responds, not even Prompto, and he yanks the flap of the tent shut behind him as he ducks inside.
Sleeping is going to be…uncomfortable. That’s probably putting it mildly. There’s barely enough space for them to all fit inside, and there’s definitely not enough room for four grown men to actually spread out. Normally that works in their favor, Prompto likes to be the big spoon, and Gladio sleeps best with somebody’s head tucked into his collarbone. Noctis can’t picture that happening tonight, or anytime soon, really. The closest anyone’s gotten to anybody else is Prompto helping Ignis up with a hand on his shoulder as he stumbled. Things haven’t been this weird since… Well, ever. Traveling to meet his betrothed hadn’t made things so tense.
The reminder of her makes his heart pang. His whole chest feels achy and heavy. It hurts. Everything hurts. It’s hard to shake it. Truthfully, he can’t fathom how he’ll ever feel wholly okay again. A part of him died with her, one he can’t ever recover no matter how much time passes.
Sluggishly, Noctis kicks off his boots, peels his wet socks over the ends of his feet, and leaves them sitting out along the far wall to hopefully dry out before morning. The cuffs of his pants are soaked too, but it feels wrong to take them off when everyone is fighting so he leaves them on to suffer through the dampness and curls up along the furthest wall of the tent. The ground is rocky and uncomfortable against his side beneath the padding of his cot, and the tension in his muscles and his head makes his body ache more. What a horrible night. He wishes he could cast himself into the Armiger.
Mercifully, he’s asleep before anyone comes in. He’s not sure how he manages it with so much in his mind, or how he stays asleep when the others slip inside, but when he wakes an indeterminate amount of time later, the air is thick with body heat and there are two men sleeping mostly peacefully at his back.
His socks are still wet when he drags them on. His boots are even worse, but at least his feet have regained feeling. He can wiggle his toes and they’ll listen.
Cautiously, Noctis creeps around the perimeter of the tent to the exit. It’s pitch black outside, it must be the middle of the night, and the fire has dwindled to flickering embers. Their chairs are still propped up around it, spaced far enough apart that an outsider would think four strangers had spent the night together. It makes his chest feel like it’s being squeezed when he stops to take it all in.
Gladio is on watch. He’s nothing but a shadow at the edge of camp. His broad shoulders are bowed with the weight of his duty and his heart, and he’s got his arms crossed firmly over his chest. Noctis can see the tension in his jaw from here. He doesn’t turn around.
The worn canvas of his chair creaks when Noctis slumps into it. He doesn’t feel any less exhausted than when he went to sleep, and he scrubs at his eyes like that’ll help, exhaling a long breath to the sky. It’s cold enough outside that it fogs the air, but it’s a welcome change from the musty heat of bodies crammed together in the tent. He likes the bite of it on his bare forearms.
Noctis doesn’t have the energy to stoke the fire. Truthfully, he doesn’t have the energy for much of anything lately. He’s just going through the motions, weighed down by ghosts and responsibility he doesn’t think he can shoulder. There’s nothing to do but go forward, right? How can he when every step is so hard to take?
“Are you going to trade with me or should I assume His Highness is too busy moping to stand watch?”
The accusatory, gruff timbre of Gladio’s voice slashes through the silence of the night after a few minutes have passed. Noctis doesn't need to open his eyes to know what expression he’s wearing, and so he keeps them sealed shut. The lack of acknowledgement just pisses him off more. Gladio’s scoff stabs him in the gut, and Noctis’ jaw goes taut.
“Figured,” he mutters. The soles of his shoes crunch in the gravel as he shifts his weight, and Noctis breathes out steadily through his nostrils as he folds his arms around himself. The burning anger in the pit of his stomach is spitting, hot flames leaping at their cage. Noctis wants to scream. “Just worried about yourself. Fuck if anybody else is ‘exhausted’, right?”
His body moves before his brain catches up to his muscles. Noctis leaps from his chair so fast it rivals his warp, and Gladio whirls around as his fist comes up between them. Thin fingers latch around the open placket of his shirt, and Noctis’ yell echoes around them as he shoves at him with all his momentum.
“Quit talking, you asshole!” he shouts as Gladio stumbles back, blindsided by the ambush. Noctis curls both hands into the front of his shirt and yanks, but he’s not strong enough to do more than make this solid wall of muscle waver off balance.
“Oh, now you’re mad?” Gladio’s voice is dangerously low. His face twists the shadows cast upon it with rage, and he grabs at Noctis’ wrists to shove his hands off him. They smack down to his sides loudly, and Gladio takes a single measured step into his space. They’re nose to nose, breathing the same air, eyes locked together. He’s so close Noctis can see every spot his skin’s healed tight around the scars on his face.
“Now, Noctis?” His hands curl into fists at his sides, and his teeth ache as he gnashes them. He’s trembling, and his eyes narrow as the angry thing in his chest ticks. “Not when Ignis almost died for you? Not when your bride died for you, and you didn’t do shit to make good on her sacrifice?”
He doesn’t think. Noctis throws himself into Gladio with a cry, and they tumble, crashing back against the hard ground with forced grunts. “Shut up!” he screams, voice raw, eyes burning. Both his hands come up to smack into Gladio’s bare chest, and Noctis pounds against it as tears spill over his lash line. “I know! Don’t you think I get it? I know!”
The world spins on its axis. Pain blooms up his spine, and Noctis gasps as his back hits the ground. Gladio’s heavy weight crushes him, and he loses all the breath in his lungs in a rush as both his arms are snatched and pinned against his sternum. Thrashing doesn't help free him, and a rough scream tears through his throat as he bucks and kicks his knees up into the stronger man’s abdomen. Gladio’s built like a fucking tree. He won’t budge, no matter how much Noctis fights.
“Noctis!” he barks, constricting his hands tighter around his wrists. It hurts, and Noctis grits his teeth and throws his head back as a yell rips from him. His legs flail wildly, and Gladio mounts them to pin them to the ground above his knees. “Knock it off!”
With both his arms locked in his grasp, Gladio shakes him like it’ll force some sense back into him. Noctis jerks like a ragdoll, momentarily arrested from the suddenness, and a frustrated, growly shout breaks free from his lips as he blinks back the tears blurring his sight. “Let go!” he shouts, but Gladio’s hands wrap tighter around his wrists to hold him in place. He’s as good as cuffed.
“You’re acting like an idiot,” he snaps, leaning back on his knees. Noctis groans through his teeth, back arching dramatically as he writhes beneath him, but Gladio’s strong legs cage him in at either side of his thighs. He’s trapped under the weight of him, powerless, and boiling over with anger and pain and frustration. “Think, will you?”
His sight blurs with glass, and his skull aches when he throws his head back against the ground. The bones in his wrists grate together painfully, and Noctis yells his name into the night as Gladio holds him captive. He doesn’t have enough fight in his body to keep doing this, but he feels like he’s going to burst apart at the seams if something doesn’t give. He can’t do this.
Gladio catches his scream with his mouth. His teeth clank against Noctis’ and his face is scratchy against the soft flesh of his jaw, and he doesn’t give him any room to think or to breathe. He kisses like he fights - overwhelming, like a tempest crashing over him all at once, and relentlessly.
Every sensation in his body screeches to refocus. His awareness zeroes into the bruising demands of Gladio’s mouth, and Noctis ekes out a whimper as his tongue forces its way behind his teeth. It’s swallowed into their kiss before it can take life fully, muffled and whiny and high.
One rough hand cups around his jaw. His own hands remain trapped against his chest, and Gladio squeezes at them as his fingers press into the rigid bones in his wrists. It hurts, but in a way that makes electric shocks flicker in the back of Noctis’ head.
When Gladio pulls back to breathe, they’re both heaving. His pupils have swallowed up all the color in his eyes, and they dart across Noctis’ face like he’s searching for something. Whatever it is, Noctis must not give it to him. His brows twitch into an angry furrow, and he growls from deep in his chest as he leans in to kiss him harder. It feels like a punishment, or maybe like pleading.
All at once, Gladio lets him go. Noctis bucks on instinct, shoving both his hands up into his shoulders, but he doesn’t budge an inch as he pushes at him. Noctis muffles a whine into their kiss, and he smacks his palms fruitlessly into Gladio’s deltoids and digs in his nails at the base of his neck.
“Don’t be a brat.” His voice is growly, and his teeth bite at Noctis’ swollen lips as Gladio rumbles into his mouth. The words send a scattering rush of chills across his flesh, and Noctis balks at the very notion that his body reacts to any part of that command. He thrashes violently beneath his Shield, but with him straddled atop his thighs, there is nowhere for him to go.
“Gladio!” His mouth feels numb and clumsy. Noctis’ face is hot, he can feel the burn in his cheeks, and he pushes insistently into his arms as he arches off the ground. The rocks fucking hurt, and he’s being crushed into them beneath a force he’s unable to budge.
Gladio’s head bows. His teeth sink brutally into the soft flesh beneath Noctis’ jaw and dig in, and his answering shout peals into the sky. White hot pricks of agony shoot through his already raw throat, and his nails claw weakly into the sleeves of Gladio’s shirt. When he sucks the skin into his mouth and grinds his molars against it, Noctis’ voice breaks on a ragged noise he can’t swallow. They’re going to alert the daemons to their camp, but it’s impossible to contain.
In a rush of motion, Gladio wrenches away from him. Both his hands shove at the backs of his thighs to press them up towards his chest, and Noctis’ hips lift off the ground as he yanks his pants down just far enough to expose him. The air is freezing cold against the wet heat of him, and he bites down on a protesting whine. Gladio’s warm fingers are there, anyway, petting through the slick shamefully pooled on his cunt. His laugh is mean, and it makes a sick mix of arousal and anger bubble in the pit of his stomach.
“Gladiolus,” Noctis snaps, interrupting his snide commentary about being easy, icy eyes sharp as he throws a piercing glare up at him. His bangs are sticking to his lashes from the tears drying in them, and his mouth twists into a pinched frown. “Get on with it, will you? Don’t fuck around.”
His belt clanks as he opens it. Neither of them speak while he shifts his weight on his knees and drags Noctis closer to him, his shirt riding up around his waist from the friction against the ground. Noctis squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth as he feeds his cock into him without prep, breathing steadily through his nose. It’s thick and hard and so much all at once, and it hurts more than it feels good. It’s been a long time. The more days they’d spent on that train, the more he thought he’d never feel any of their hands on him again.
“You can take it.” Noctis exhales in a shudder as he keeps pushing in, but he’s doing his best to swallow the hiccuping whimpers that sting his tongue. Gladio’s voice is mostly even, but Noctis knows him well enough to tell he’s speaking through his teeth. His hands are clamped tight around the tops of his thighs, trembling. He’s fighting for control, sinking in as slowly as he can manage, and when he hilts in him he exhales out in a relieved rush of breath.
Noctis gives himself barely a moment to adjust. His muscles bear down around the thick pressure in him, and he levels his scowl up at Gladio with dirt in his hair and shaky legs. He feels a bit like he’s being split in half, but the angry pit in his stomach hasn’t died down, and he likes how it hurts.
“Move,” Noctis demands, his voice scratchy, and Gladio scoffs out an annoyed huff as he grinds into him. He’s so deep he can feel him up in his fucking womb. The angle is divine and also the worst thing to happen to him. He’s going to end up so bruised, and then he’s going to be forced to sit on a hard train bench again for hours. “Fuck me.”
The Prince’s Shield spurs into action. He tips himself back on his knees and readjusts his grip as he draws his cock out slowly, and then he slams it back inside in one go. He’s so big, the throbbing heat of it is intense, and Noctis’ fingers drag down his arms as he cuts deep inside him. Every thrust feels like a punishment, and he can barely breathe between the insistent pounding of his hips. It hurts. It hurts, but it’s good.
Gladio’s grunting something under his breath. Noctis can’t make out the words; his head is too cloudy to focus on anything beyond the feeling of fullness spearing him open. Gladio’s necklace rocks forward and back against his chest, knocking into his knees when he leans over Noctis further, and his throat constricts with a noise he’s not positive he’s really making.
“Come on.” This one is clear. Rough fingers pinch around the base of his clit, and Noctis cries out as he bucks beneath him. It’s so much, and when Gladio’s other hand drags him closer along the cold ground to pull him into his thrust, pleasure stabs through the core of him. His cunt squeezes desperately around the base of his cock, and his hips shake as he struggles to press his pelvis into each hilted blow.
He can’t speak. There’s no room in his mouth for anything but the ghost of Gladio’s name on his tongue. He’s breathing so hard he’s gasping with every inhale, and Noctis’ hands tremble violently where they’re latched around his thick forearms. They’re so tense beneath his grip, and his eyes snap open to stare up at Gladio as he rolls his hips and grinds in deep. The head of his cock drags over the spongy upper wall of his cunt, and his clit throbs as Gladio strokes up and down over the sides of it with insistent pressure. It’s all he can do to hold onto his arms and dig in his nails.
“Where’s your fight, Noct?” Gladio’s purring, drinking in his expression with a well of emotion in his gaze, and Noctis trembles under the intense attention. He’s close, so close, and he scratches down his forearms as he shoves his hips up urgently. His legs are on fire from the position, it’s so difficult to move, but he just needs that little bit more.
“Gladio,” he squawks, straining to meet each rough slam of his cock. He’s losing his rhythm, and Noctis needs to feel him cum like he needs air. His jaw drops open on a moan that’s so strangled it hurts, and he bears down around him with all the strength he can muster. “Please.”
One more squeeze along his shaft is all it takes. Noctis’ orgasm explodes from within him, and he shouts as his whole body undulates to ride the duration of it. It’s so strong it takes his vision from him, and he barely registers the grunt of his name and the flood of warmth in his gut as Gladio buries himself balls deep and fills him. It feels like it goes on forever, and Noctis chases every second of it until his legs feel too weak to move any more.
His legs drop heavily. There are pebbles clinging to the sweat on his lower back where his shirt had gotten pushed up and dirt all over his body, and his lungs burn from his gasping as he slumps against the ground. His hips jolt when Gladio pulls out, and Noctis whines an unhappy sound as a wet mix of fluid rushes out of him. His eyes slip shut, blocking out the dancing light from the dying fire behind them, and Gladio’s fingertips stroke through the mess of their cum before they vanish.
His Shield’s frame thunks into the ground beside him. Noctis slides a cautious gaze towards him, but Gladio’s staring up into the sky. The pendant resting on his sternum glints in the light as his chest heaves, and his bare flesh glistens with sweat. Their shoulders press together from their proximity, and their elbows bump when they shift against the unforgiving surface cushioning them.
“I presume the two of you worked things out?” Ignis inquires in the morning. They’re gathered around camp with another pathetic round of tin cans, this time warmed by the fire. The awkward distance has remained, but the air is less tense than before. It’s a work in progress. One step forward at a time, right?
Prompto’s answering snort is loud and obnoxious, and heat flushes through Noct’s whole face. He’s staring straight at the evidence branded on the Prince’s throat, and it takes every ounce of self control he possesses to not slap his hand over it. He can feel the ache of the bruise there when he chews or speaks, but there’s no use in covering it up when it’s this bad (and they’ve all given each other worse, anyway).
“Oh, they sure did, Iggy.”
Gladio’s wearing a tiny smile that’s just barely turned up at the corners, and he breathes out a soft laugh as his eyes meet Noct’s. They linger just long enough for him to read the apology in them, mirrored right back in his own.
“At first I thought a daemon got you,” Prompto continues. The heat in Noctis’ cheeks seeps into the tips of his ears, and he squirms from left to right in his seat. He’s sore, and the chair is unforgiving, but fidgeting helps dissipate some of the embarrassment.
Prompto is laughing, and when Noctis glances up, even Ignis is smiling. He’s got his chin propped up in his hand and his face angled straight at him. Noctis could almost swear he can see him when his expression softens as their eyes meet, but it’s just a trick of the timing.
Gladio shoulder checks him as they pack up camp. “Get your head back on,” he murmurs. His voice is soft and hushed and just for him, and when he smacks his palm into Noctis’ back, it lingers long enough to pet affectionately over his spine. “We need our King.”
He sighs, but Noctis finds that his lips are tight at the ends with a smile that hasn’t quite taken form.
“Yes, sir,” he murmurs, heaving his bag up. “I’m alright.”
He’s got a promise to keep.