Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gladio stares down at the monstrosity in front of him.

Terrifying? Check. Oozing all over the place? Check. Tasty?

He, well— given the first two points, he sure fucking hopes so. 

“Damn it,” Noctis mutters under his breath, and tosses the bag he’s holding to the side. It skitters on the marble, bright green amongst the gold-speckled black. “That’s it. I give up.”

It’s a beautiful day in Insomnia: clear blue skies that are starting to tint with sherbet sunset, little clouds floating by the window like puffs of cotton candy. The sleek metal counters and open layout of Noctis’ apartment would feel cold in comparison, if it wasn’t screaming with Ignis’ personal touches on Noctis’ behalf. A plant there, a tasteful but Noctis-appropriate painting there; if he hadn’t had his entire career set in front of him by the time he could talk, Ignis would have made a killer interior decorator. 

Still, sunshine ain’t contagious. Even for Noctis, the words are peak moody. Looking down at the sorry excuse for a birthday cake sitting pathetically on the counter in front of them, Gladio can’t even blame him for that one. 

When Noctis spins around to leave the kitchen, Gladio grabs him by the back of the shirt and yanks him back.

“Oh no you don’t, grumpypants.”

Noctis flails as he’s dragged back to the kitchen counter. “Hey!”

Gladio ignores him, picking up his own bag of yellow frosting. “Iggy’s gonna be here in an hour, tops,” he warns, in case Noctis has somehow forgotten the damn reason they’re huddled around in his fancy kitchen seeing to this monstrosity, “and there’s no way in hell we’re giving him…” 

He pauses, staring down at the pathetic excuse for a homemade birthday cake waiting patiently for their attention, trying to find the right word for it. 

“...this.”

There really isn’t a better descriptor. What’s in front of them is a cake, at least on paper: it has flour, and butter, and sugar, and whatever else was in the recipe Iris helped Noctis put together. Hell, given that she helped do the baking, it probably tastes like cake too. 

But the decorating is–well. 

He’s pretty sure this is what Cor would call a threat to the state. 

“I’m not a fucking cake artist,” Noctis mutters, petulant –because even at eighteen, he still hasn’t outgrown that yet– but he picks up a bag of red frosting and starts back up on the rose he was trying to do. Gladio thinks, privately, that it looks more like a pool of blood, but. “Whose idea was this anyways?”

“Uh, yours.”

Noctis glares at him. “It was not.”

“Oh yeah? Because I wasn’t the one who claimed we needed to make a cake–”

“Yeah, make, not decorate! We should have had Iris–”

“Alright, alright, shut up and get back to your damn heart,” Gladio interrupts, eyeing the clock, because he wasn’t kidding about Ignis getting here soon. Part of him prays his spa day is running late. He should have bribed the receptionist to accidentally schedule a mineral bath, or something. 

(He snorts. Right– like that would have worked. Ignis probably has the all-day spa retreat planned out to the tee.)

Noctis scowls, a brush of pink on his cheeks. “It’s not a heart.”

“Sure.” Gladio rolls his eyes. “Whatever it is, princess, it needs to happen faster.”

“Do you want fast or good?” Noctis shoots back, and when Gladio glares at him, drops his bag again. “Fine. If you’re so picky, you do it.”

Gladio grits his teeth and focuses on the orange tree he’s trying to make miraculously appear out of fluffy frosting. Today ain’t the day to be picking a fight– not when they’ve gotten along so far up to this point. With a huff, Noctis peels back from the kitchen counter, stalking over to the pile of presents in the living area. 

Looking at him, the frame of his shoulders, Gladio can see how he’s grown the past few years. Not like Gladio, of course –that’s an Amicitia gene thing– but lean with muscle, hard-earned. Gladio has sparred with him enough to know what his body feels like, where he can push and where he’ll get pushed back. 

Part of him is proud. The other part is damn annoyed that neither of them were taught how to whip up a good buttercream.

The buzz of a phone a few seconds later draws Gladio from his focus on the –still terrible, still pathetic– orange tree. When he glances up, Noctis is staring down at his screen with an unreadable expression. 

“Prompto?” Gladio checks, and Noctis shrugs.

“No.” His shoulders have hunched a bit. When Gladio raises an eyebrow at him –who is it then, princess?– he adds, stiff, “It’s dad.”

Ah. Gladio ignores the way the air around them has gone distinctly tense.

“Emergency?”

“No.”

“You need to go anywhere?”

Noctis shakes his head. 

Right. Well. 

“Then text Prompto and tell him to hurry his chocobo ass up,” Gladio orders, because like hell he’s touching anything to do with the King with a ten foot polearm. The words have the intended effect anyways: Noctis makes a face at him, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening. 

“You can hurry your ass up,” he shoots back, but he starts typing something, so Gladio counts it as a win. 

While he does, Gladio surveys the cake, trying to figure out the next plan of attack. Half-heartedly, he adds another leaf to the tree, sighing when it looks more like a shitty caterpillar. His father has spent years teaching him how to differentiate between a lost battle and one that can be brought back from the edge –It’s all about strategy, Gladio; do you truly think that strength alone can stand between your King and death?– and the more he looks at it, the more Gladio thinks that maybe it’s time for a retreat.

Damn it. He runs a hand over his face. Is there still time to buy something? 

He goes to check the clock– and instead, catches Noctis’ eyes.

Sometime between Gladio thinking and now, he’s slid back over to the kitchen counter, planting himself on one of the fancy stools that Ignis purchased when he got the place. The light is framing him nicely, soft layers of sun streaming through the window and outlining him in an almost lazy halo. 

The second their gazes connect, though, Noctis jerks his eyes to the side. 

That makes Gladio cross his arms. Now hold on a second. 

“What?” he challenges, because like hell is he gonna let Noctis judge his work with his shitty blob of a rose in the corner. There’s a rare flush of pink on Noctis’ face, and he looks away harder. 

“What?” he echoes back, just as defensive, and Gladio rolls his eyes.

“You were looking at me!”

“I was not,” Noctis mutters, and the pink is spreading to his neck now. Embarrassed about being called out, Gladio thinks, and snorts.

“Yeah, sure. C’mon princess, spit it out, I ain’t gonna let the future King keep his opinions to himself–”

Noctis grabs one of the bags of frosting and throws it at him. “Will you shut up?” 

As far as attacks are concerned, it ain’t his best attempt. The bag hits Gladio harmlessly in the chest, bouncing off his shirt with a smear of green– but when it plops to the counter, Gladio’s eyes narrow.

Oh hell no. 

He knows a declaration of war when he sees one. He looks up from the bag, to Noctis– who’s eyes go wide.  

When Gladio lunges, Noctis leaps back. 

There’s a scramble of limbs as Gladio vaults over the counter, Noctis nearly tripping over himself as he tries to untangle from his chair. For a second, Gladio thinks he has him, hands only centimeters from getting him in a headlock– and then there’s a flash of blue, and a fizzle of magic, and Noctis has warped across to the living room.

“Oh fuck off, that’s cheating!” Gladio swears at him, even as an odd sense of pride fills him at the maneuver. 

“My house, my rules,” Noctis shoots back, but he’s grinning, and ain’t that a rare sight. He postures against the couch, smirking. “Well, big guy? What now?”

Gladio grins back at him. Now this is a game he knows how to play.

“How about I teach you how to call uncle?”

“You wish,” Noctis says, too smug for his own damn good. They’re sizing each other up, now– with warping on the table, they both know this battle just got a lot more evenly matched. Gladio is strong, but Noctis is fast; and Gladio thinks about strategy. What might confine Noctis, narrow his movement, and when he next lunges, it’s with a new plan in mind.

Noctis backsteps the first attempt at a grapple, skidding around the couch. Gladio’s next swing forces him to warp to the TV; he counters a charge by ducking under, tripping when Gladio tries to sweep his legs out from under him. 

It’s a near fall, but then he warps again, the magic so strong Gladio feels it in a shiver down his spine like ice on a summer’s day.

When Noctis reappears next to the counter, he’s panting.

“Nice,” Gladio tells him, meaning it, because that was quick. There’s a flicker of surprise on Noctis’ face before he grins, wider.

“Not bad yourself.”

Gladio snorts. He starts to circle back around, because so far, Noctis is exactly where he wants him. “You’re getting faster.”

“Maybe you’re getting slower,” Noctis counters, and that earns another lunge, this one more pointed. Just like Gladio expected, Noctis is slowing down –he isn’t made for long fights in a small space– and this time Gladio actually feels the brush of his cotton shirt on his fingers before Noctis ducks and darts to the side. 

Gladio doesn’t give him space to breathe. He makes another grab, and Noctis barely avoids it. Gladio feels the first trickle of magic, looks to where Noctis’ eyes dart; and before Noctis has even warped out of his range, Gladio’s running.

There’s the flash of blue –once Noctis starts a warp, he can’t back out– and then they’re both near his bedroom door at the same time.

He sees the moment Noctis turns and realizes Gladio isn’t still in the kitchen; how his eyes go huge, with him right there waiting. He starts to go to the side, trying to divert. Then he seems to notice: if he does, he’s going to crash right into the carefully framed video game poster that Prompto got him for his sixteenth birthday.

The single second of hesitation is enough. With one well-timed strike, Gladio has him pinned against the wood of the door.

“Got you!” he crows, as their bodies slam together. Noctis lets out a strangled oof, the breath rushing out of him as he struggles to get free. “What now, Princess?”

“Fuck,” Noctis hisses, and tries to warp again, but just as Gladio expected, he’s out of stamina. When he tries to push back against him, Gladio pins him harder. “Ow!”

“Who’s slow now?”

“You–” Noctis starts, because he doesn’t know when to shut his damn mouth, and when Gladio leans his weight hard on his arm (careful to avoid his back), he yelps. “Ow, okay, you win, geeze!”

Gladio smirks. “I thought so.”

Sweet, sweet victory, he thinks smugly, watching Noctis’ chest as it heaves up and down. He's stopped trying to struggle, pupils blown wide as they both pant in the narrow hallway. Despite the brevity of the fight, they’re both flushed; he can feel each plane of Noctis’ body from where they’re pressed together, the jump and strain of his muscles. 

Despite the ice cold of his warping, he’s intensely, startlingly warm.

Too warm. He feels alive and hot under Gladio’s body, winded and a bit messy. And there’s something– tight, in Gladio’s stomach, as he takes in all of it. 

Noctis is staring at him, he realizes. Their eyes hold; Gladio can feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, sees the way a vein on his neck jumps.

In the sudden silence, Noctis swallows. His tongue darts out, just once, to wet his lips. 

Rap Rap Rap Rap Rap Rap!

They both jolt like they’ve been electrocuted. 

“Guys?” says a muffled voice through the door, and reality rushes back so fast that it almost sends him reeling. “Hello?”

Prompto. 

They leap apart, Gladio jumping back from Noctis like he’s a raging fire. Noctis ain’t exactly different– he nearly stumbles away, a jerky movement that’s out of place after the elegance of how he’d warped. Everything comes back into focus: the kitchen, and the damn cake, and of course Prompto is here, because it’s Ignis’ surprise birthday party, and how did they even get distracted like this in the first place?

“Coming!” Noctis calls, voice hoarse. He’s bright pink. Gladio tears his gaze away from him as he rushes over to the door, pointedly not looking at Gladio. “One sec!”

“Take your time, I’m good–”

Gladio slips back over to the kitchen as Noctis fumbles with the multiple locks on the door. His heart is pounding, ba-dump, ba-dump, and he shakes his head to clear it. 

There’s a clatter of wood; Noctis has managed to yank the door open. “There you are! What held you u–whoa.”

He sounds surprised enough that Gladio looks over. 

“I think I got it all?” Prompto manages, standing in the doorway with a truly impressive amount of shit in his arms. It’s like a mountain of plastic bags has eaten him, only his frazzled face poking out behind them; but he’s grinning, like he always is, excitement practically spilling out of him like sunshine. “Sorry I’m late! Iggy’s not here yet, right?”

“Wow. How much did you buy?” Noctis asks, as Prompto struggles to fit through the door. He tries to grab a bag, but Prompto is too distracted to notice, talking a mile a minute.

“Well I know you said we could just order in, but then I passed by that curry place – the one Iggy likes, you know, on Intadaki Street?– and I thought that maybe it’d go well with the wine, or something, and it was on my bus route anyways, plus I remembered that he goes bonkers over those weird cookie things so I figured I’d,” as he speaks, one of the bags gets caught in the door, and his voice goes into a squeak, “oh shit–”

Like a carefully balanced see-saw that just experienced an earthquake, he starts to tilt. Instantly, Gladio and Noctis rush forward. 

“Prompto!”

“Oi, Blondie, careful!”

They half-collide in their haste to stop him from falling, another unruly scramble of limbs. Prompto squeaks louder, struggling to regain his balance.

“Sorry, sorry!” he gasps, half in Noctis’ arms, and when Gladio grabs him by the waist to try and straighten him back up, he jolts. Gladio’s hands feel huge on him– his stomach flips pleasantly, feeling the heat of his skin through his clothes. “Um, I– haa, whoo, my bad, uh, thanks, guys–”

“Dude, be careful,” Noctis tells him. His and Gladio’s hands are close, too, and they both seem to realize it at the same time, because he flinches back right before Gladio has the chance to, running a hand through his hair. “You dork.”

Prompto is bright red. 

“Sorry!” he repeats, and wriggles out of Gladio’s grip, eyes flicking to his face before skittering away. 

“You’re good.” Gladio grabs the bags before another disaster can happen. That, at least, earns him a grin– sunny, and bright, and something in Gladio eases the instant he sees it. 

“Aw, thanks, big guy!” Prompto gushes, and Gladio huffs. 

“No problem.” 

He beelines to the kitchen. Before Prompto can no doubt try to help him, Noctis is taking over his attention. “You could have asked us for a ride,” he accuses, tugging on his arm and dragging him over to one of the chairs by the counter. Prompto balks. 

“Wha? Noo, no way, it was fine, besides, it’s a great day out…”

Gladio rolls his eyes as Prompto jumps into a lengthy list of excuses for why he didn’t ask for help. He sets the mountain of plastic down on the marble, pushing back the feeling still lingering at the tips of his fingers. 

Focus up, he scolds himself. 

Right. He surveys the bags, going through the mental checklist of what they asked for. Prompto delivered, that’s for sure: a quick double-check of the wine has him grunting in approval, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he finds the receipt. 

As quick as he can, he shreds it. Ignis would have a heart attack if he ever knew (Six, Gladio can practically hear the gasp of horror in his head as he rips the flimsy piece of paper in half, then in half again), but unless Gladio wants to figure out a way to fake identity theft and convince Ignis that no, they would never buy him his favorite 2,000 gil wine on Citadel expense, how could he even think that, it’s the best course of action. 

For good measure, he goes over to the sink, soaks the paper in water, and shoves it down the garbage disposal. There, he thinks smugly, as the rattle of shredded paper fills the air. Can’t throw a fit when there ain’t a receipt.

When he turns back to join Prompto and Noctis, he’s momentarily thrown. The sun outside has shifted, pouring through the glass at a new angle; it’s a burst of golden light, an entire blanket of it, almost. 

And –annoyingly– it’s drowning out the scene in front of him. 

“Ugh,” he mutters, squinting through the glare. What the hell? It’s sunset, where is that even coming from?

With the wash of color, he can just make out that Prompto is looking around the apartment, but there’s no expression on his face, just light. Next to him, Noctis is just a blurred out shape; like an inverse of before, as if the light is passing through him, no longer a gentle halo. 

He must sense Gladio staring –squinting– because Gladio sees the outline of his head tilt. “What’s up?”

His voice sounds a little garbled, which is weird. Gladio shakes his head; beer he drank while they made the cake must’ve been stronger than he thought. 

“Nothing,” he grunts. With a frown, he crosses the room and slides the offending curtain closed, blocking the light. As soon as he does, the apartment shivers back into focus.

Right. There. 

When he turns back, Prompto is talking. 

“Wow, the place looks great,” he says, bouncing up and down in his chair as he takes in everything like an excited puppy. “Did you hire cleaners or something?” He’s thinking, Gladio knows, of the mess he and Noctis made yesterday on their video game night. 

“Princess got up early this morning to clean,” Gladio inserts before Noctis can open his mouth to deflect, and Prompto blinks. He looks at Noctis, eyebrows raised.

“Dude. You?”

At the tone, Noctis crosses his arms. “Why not me?”

“Uh,” Prompto makes a face, like duh. “No offense, but I don’t think I’ve seen you clean in my life.”

He’s the only person in the world who could say it without Noctis getting snippy. True to form, Noctis shrugs and looks away. 

“Yeah, well, it’s Specs.”

In other words: they all know that if there was a speck of dirt in sight, the first thing Ignis would do when he came in would be to go to town like a feral coeurl at feeding time, even if he doesn’t expect anyone but Gladio to be here in the first place. Hell, he’s probably fantasizing about it right now, massage be damned. 

Prompto is peering around the room with greater interest. “Alright, alright, fair point. Do you think he’ll be picky about garlands? I got the best ones I could find but– uhhhhhh, guys, what is…” 

He breaks off abruptly, eyes going wide. Gladio turns, confused, and finds that Prompto is staring at the space near the fridge, where–

Oh. Shit. Right. 

Damn it, he thinks, when he sees the pathetic attempt at their cake once more. It looks even worse now that he isn’t desensitized to the carnage.

Noctis lets out a long, low sigh. “Don’t look at it, Prom.”

Wise words. But of course, Prompto inches towards it instead, like someone approaching a live bomb. “Um. Wow.” He bites his lip, staring at the poor excuse for a confection. “That’s, uh, the cake?”

“Technically, yes,” Gladio grunts. Noctis has peaced out already, halfway across the living room with a garland from the bags in his hands; not that Gladio blames him. If he wasn’t a shield through and through, he’d be running away from the shame of it too. Amused, he watches Prompto scramble for something nice to say, torn between open curiosity and a vague kind of horror.

“It’s, uh…”

Gladio snorts. “I know.”

“How’d you–”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Wow,” Prompto repeats after a moment, still amazed, and Gladio can’t help but laugh. Noctis mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like told you we should have just hired someone, but Gladio ignores it, because if he strangles Noctis then Ignis will definitely have a few non-happy birthday thoughts to share.

With his dagger. And maybe a fire spell.  

“Let’s just say we overestimated our skills,” he offers, and Prompto bites his lip. To his credit, he hasn’t laughed yet. 

“Right.” There’s a beat of silence, as Noctis fiddles more aggressively with his garland in the living room. Then: “Can I try?”

Gladio pauses halfway through arranging the garland, eyebrows raising. Even Noctis seems surprised, glancing over with interest.

Prompto, as a rule, doesn’t ask for things. But when Gladio takes him in, his head is tilted, open interest evident as he stares down at the cake. For a second, it’s clear that he hasn’t even realized he’s said it; it’s only when they don’t reply right away that he seems to come back into himself, startling and looking up.

When he sees them staring, he backtracks.

“I mean– duh, of course not, I’m sure you had plans for it–” he starts, tongue nearly tripping over itself, and Gladio and Noctis speak at the same time.

“Go for it.”

“Don’t be stupid, course you can.”

Prompto blinks a few times. “Oh. Uh, you sure?”

“Can’t make it worse,” Gladio reasons, Noctis nodding in agreement, and Prompto relaxes. He turns back to the cake. 

“Cool! Um, the frosting…”

“Big tub of it in the fridge still. Go wild.” He offers a silent prayer to the Astrals that no food coloring gets on the holy space that is Ignis’ hand-picked marble counter. 

Noctis is struggling to untangle the plastic beads when Gladio emerges from his work with his own decorations near the door, garlands set up over the rest of the living room. There’s an intense focus on his face, building into frustration, and Gladio takes pity on him and goes to help.

“I’m good,” Noctis huffs when he tries, and Gladio rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Don’t be a dick, then.”

“Hey, is this supposed to be an orange tree?” Prompto says before a huge fight can break out, like he’s a professional Noctis deescalator or something. When Gladio grunts out an affirmative, he makes a curious noise. “Does Iggy like those?”

Gladio opens his mouth to respond, but to his surprise, Noctis beats him to it.

“His mom and dad owned one, before he came to the Citadel,” he says, and Gladio blinks at him. He knew that, of course –Ignis told him, once, on one of the quiet nights they sometimes have nowadays, working late into the morning in stacks of paperwork and training when the lines always feel blurred and soft– but he didn’t know Noctis did. 

“Whoa, so they were like, farmers?” Prompto asks, and Noctis shrugs.

“I guess? But he was with his Uncle as soon as he moved here, so…”

He trails off fast– and Gladio knows why. Because the next part is a private thing, something that Iggy wouldn’t want shared, not unless he was the one saying it. 

Something warm blooms in his chest at the idea that Noctis must have cared enough to ask.

“That’s awesome,” Prompto says, apparently unbothered by the sudden stop. He picks up another bag of frosting, tongue poking out as he focuses. There’s a smear of green on his cheek, and Gladio’s chest twists again, this time almost painful. “And this thing is, uh… a… flower?”

He’s looking at Noctis’ stupid red blob now. Gladio smirks, and Noctis scowls. 

“Yes, and it’s a rose. Not a heart.” 

Prompto blinks a few times. “Wait, why would it be a heart?”

“Exactly,” Noctis snips, giving Gladio a pointed look. He abandons the decorations to join Prompto instead; their sides press together as Noctis peers over his shoulder. Then he pauses. “Whoa.”

Prompto jumps, following his gaze. “What? Did I mess something up?” 

“Huh? No, Prom–that’s really good.”

He sounds stunned. Interest piqued, Gladio goes over too. When he sees the cake, he feels his eyebrows raise. 

“Damn, Blondie.”

Noctis is right: it is good. Gladio doesn’t know how Prompto did it, but he’s replaced their mess of squiggly, uneven lines with an actual damn tapestry. The orange tree, which was more like a stick with a speck of color, has been filled out, complete with a little white picket fence and a blue sky. The rose Noctis started is still in progress, but Prompto has somehow managed to turn it into a bush of vibrant flowers. 

“Is that a vineyard?” Noctis asks, pointing at a row of neatly lined green in the background. He sounds awed, and Prompto must notice, because he blushes hard. 

“Well– yeah, um, I thought since Iggy likes wine, it might be cool…?”

He trails off, biting his lip as he glances between them. 

“We have an artist on our hands,” Gladio remarks, impressed. He shouldn’t be surprised at this point: Prompto is always making him reevaluate whatever shit he’s assumed about him. He thinks about the Crownsguard application coming up, how Prompto had pulled him and Ignis aside and shyly said, Hey, so, I’m, um, thinking of applying, do you… do you think Noct would be upset? and claps a hand on Prompto’s shoulder. “Nice, Prompto.”

It’s like he just declared his undying love or something. Prompto goes red and wriggles a little under his hand, his shirt pulling to reveal a hint of his collarbone.

“Aw, it’s nothing,” he says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck –freckles, Gladio notices distantly– and Noctis hip checks him, making him yelp. “Hey!”

“It’s not nothing.” When Prompto opens his mouth to protest, Noctis adds, “It’s great. Specs is gonna love it.”

Prompto, somehow, gets even more red. “That’s–”

“He’s right, he might even cry,” Gladio agrees, because is that double hatching on the roof? If so, Ignis is gonna fucking faint. 

Prompto doesn’t seem to know what to say for a second. “I– really?” 

“Definitely.” Noctis is grinning, their sides pressed together. Prompto looks between them both, assessing. Then, ever so slowly, a smile joins the blush, bashful and undeniably pleased. He rubs his neck again. 

“Well, you know, I live to serve,” he offers after a moment, and does a little curtsy. Gladio huffs– but Noctis actually laughs, and then Prompto is giggling, too, turning back to the cake and pointing at the middle. “I was gonna add a chocobo here saying his name. What do you think?”

Noctis’ eyes light up. “You better. Hey, make it bright pink–”

“What? No way, man, Iggy is not a bright pink kind of person–”

“You don’t want to start him on a rant about the proper color of native chocobos either,” Gladio inserts, grinning, and Noctis rolls his eyes. “We know he’s got opinions.”

Prompto perks up instantly. “Oh! Like that time you tried to dye Umbra’s paws blue, and he had to check all the ingredients?”

Noctis scowls. “That was one time, and it’s Umbra, it’s not like some hair dye is gonna end the world–”

“You never know, Noct,” Prompto says, in a startlingly good impression of Ignis’ accent, and the two of them break out into giggles. They’re clearly past the point of no return, cake forgotten; Gladio sighs, scooting it over so it’s out of elbow range and making his way back to the bags. 

“I had Luna’s permission,” Noctis points out, and when Prompto lets out an ooooooh, flushes and shoves him lightly. “Shut up. You know it’s not like that.”

Gladio rolls his eyes. Before he can make a comment, there’s a rustle from across the room. 

When he sees what made the noise, he scowls.

“Oh come on,” he mutters, holding up a hand to block the rays as the curtain at the other end of the room flutters. Not again. 

To his dismay, the curtain has its own ideas. Slowly, it shifts open; like the spread of water, sunlight spills across the floor, reaching up and coating the apartment in its golden glow once more. This time, the pure force of it is almost blinding, light crossing the expanse of Noctis’ neck in a clean, bright line and flooding everything else out. Somehow, no one else seems to have noticed–Prompto is already talking again (“I bet Ignis would dye his hair if you asked him”), Noctis rolling his eyes (“Yeah, right”), and Gladio–

Gladio can’t look away from that damn light. 

He shakes his head, annoyed. Right. He’ll just get up and close it again. Easy. 

With a huff, he crosses back over to the window. The light grows stronger as he does, and this time he actually does have to close his eyes for a second, blinking back black spots.

“Do you think Iggy will be surprised?” he hears Prompto say behind him. There’s a huff; the scrape of wood.

“He better be. We had to bribe Monica to clear his schedule and she gave us all this paperwork…”

“Eww–”

The inky curtains are smooth under Gladio’s fingers, fine silk. Freezing, too, and Gladio blinks at them for a second; feels the force of the golden rays, and how they aren’t warm, not at all. If anything, there’s a blizzard’s worth of chill, all the way down to his toes.

It feels, abruptly, wrong. 

Gladio glances back. The brightness is so strong that Noctis and Prompto are nothing more than puppeteer’s blurs; like the white frosting on the cake, he thinks dazedly, covered up by Prompto’s colors.

Something twists inside him. He should do this quickly, so he can join them. Ignis will be here soon. Turning back to the window, he takes a deep breath. Grabs the curtains, and yanks them closed.

Or— tries to. They won’t close.

Frowning, he tries again. Nothing. Behind him, the voices are blending together.

“...photo for Iris…”

“He’s gonna freak when he sees the hat…”

“...next year we could take a trip…”

Turn around now, something in him screams. Loud and frantic, and that just confuses him, because– why? All he needs to do is close this stupid window and then the light will be gone, and he can see them all properly again. 

“Come on,” he growls under his breath, pulling harder. There’s a ripping noise; when he glances up, the metal rods have started to bend under the force of his attempts. He tugs again, just to see what happens–and there’s a shattering sound.

In front of him, the window cracks.

Light pours in: bright, unforgiving, rabid in its intensity. It screams and snarls through the seams in the glass, and Gladio staggers back, hit with it like a physical blow. 

“Noct,” he tries to warn, nonsensical, because they’re under attack. “Prompto.” He doesn't know how he knows, just that he does, like how the sky is blue and Eos is round and the people behind him are his world, and the danger thrums hard in his veins. But his voice comes out in a wisp, like he didn’t speak at all, and he tries again, because he has to protect him, has to get them to safety, to Ignis, to– “Noct! Prompto!” 

The light swells, trying to drag him out–and as he turns around to shield them, 

Gladio finds that no one is there.

He wakes up with a jolt.

The haven materializes around him in a rush. There’s the cliff, dark stone contrasting against the pastel sunrise; the campfire, smoldering coals still glowing a soft red; the plush of his sleeping bag between him and the cold ground, as a sliver of sun shines into his eyes to announce the coming day. The air is crisp and fresh, a slight hint of smoke. 

And his first stupid, frustrated thought is this: not again. 

Not again, because he’s done with these damn dreams, done with the way his heart is thundering in his chest like a pack of behemoths gone rogue. Why is he dreaming about stuff that’s over–they’re out, they’re out of that damn city, and Ignis and Prompto are–

His body goes cold. 

Ignis and Prompto.

In a beat, he’s sitting up, the down blanket tucked against his chest falling to the dirt below. He whirls around, surveying the haven– and feels the sweet flood of relief moments later.

Prompto is curled up near the fire, his blonde hair poking out of the fabric and messily framing his face. He’s frowning as he sleeps, sunlight just starting to brush his body like a second blanket– twisted into his sleeping bag in a tiny semicolon, and that had been one hell of an effort, convincing him to let them buy it for him. Unlike the two of them, Ignis is still tucked into the shadow of the cliff, the soft rise and fall of his chest the only sign that there’s anything under the sleeping bag at all. Gladio can’t see his face, can’t see anything but the elegant curve of his neck; but he manages to draw in a breath anyways, rattling and raw in his lungs.

Of course. They’re right where he last saw them.

Obviously. 

Obviously, he repeats in his head, and forces in another breath. He closes his eyes, runs a hand across his face. Prompto and Ignis sleep, unaware. 

Another day. 

Come on, Shield. Get it started. 

It’s weird, Gladio thinks twelve hours later, as he stands by the side of the road with his thumb in the air and dust in his mouth, how sometimes nature just fucking pranks you.

“Well shit,” he sighs. Prompto fidgets.

“See anything yet?”

“Nope. You?”

“Um, no, not really– Iggy, do you hear–”

“Not so much as a rumble,” Ignis says from where he’s safely tucked into the shade of a half-destroyed tree, and Gladio barely holds back a groan. He narrows his eyes, trying to peer past the sheen of hot air surrounding them in all directions, but just like before, only one thing stands out.

Dirt, dirt, and more dirt. 

This time, he does groan, running a hand over his face. Ten years. Ten years clawing through the long dark, honing their skills for hunting and surviving– and now here they are, huddled by the road and smack-dab in the once-cool and now definitely-not-cool-thanks-to-the-sun desert, and none of those things make a damn difference.

Well ain’t that just their luck.    

“I mean, there’s still plenty of time?” Prompto hedges, in the way Gladio recognizes as trying to ease some of the tension that’s hung over them since a few hours ago. Gladio glances at him, and Prompto offers a weak smile. He’s next to Ignis in the shadow of the tree—or what counts for one, nowadays, which means it’s a hunk of leafless wood that’s somewhat vertical in nature. “Someone has to come by eventually?” 

Despite the words, he doesn’t exactly sound confident. And Gladio–

Gladio is trying not to get frustrated, but damn is it hard. 

The start of the trip hasn’t been bad, exactly. Gladio has seen bad: bad is people screaming and being run down by daemons. Bad is watching orphans packed into safe houses in Lestallum as the people caring for them beg and steal for food because there ain’t enough to go around. Bad is death, and decay, and the things that lurk in the dark.

(Bad is what’s been hovering over all of them since they left Hammerhead, tucked into places that look familiar but have one less person here than there should be, the stuff he doesn’t let himself think about and sure as hell isn’t going to bring up.)

So not being able to find a great camping spot for tonight isn’t bad, not really. He just wishes they’d have some damn luck thrown their way now that they’re officially on the road.

“I guess,” he acknowledges, still peering ahead. They’ve been navigating the emaciated, cadaverous path into the desert via old trails that not many hunters use nowadays—close enough to the actual go-to road that if there’s an emergency they get help and restock, but not so close that they’ll be dealing with passersby every hour.

It’s the smart thing to do, Gladio knows. It’s practical to stay close to routes they’ve taken before. Even if it grates Gladio’s teeth, because right now they’re three, but back then it was– 

Whatever. Past doesn’t matter. They’re in the present now. 

The point is, that’s what they’re doing. Sticking close to civilization, and Gladio should be a big boy and suck it up, because like hell is he putting Ignis and Prompto in danger just because his head can’t get past old shit. They survived the apocalypse. He ain’t gonna let any of them get taken out by something so mundane as heat or hunger, not if there’s a safer option. 

Besides, Prompto and Ignis had agreed it was the best plan– and sure, they’ve been quiet, but that’s how they are nowadays. 

“We good?” he’d asked this morning, when they had woken up with bleary eyes and muffled movements. Ignis first, and then Prompto, waking slowly as Gladio tried to entice them both to the world and to the fire with the smell of coffee. No coffee maker, not anymore, because– well.

Hadn’t mattered.

And the reaction had been the same as the past five days, of course. Prompto had jumped up, rushed over: “Yeah, yeah, let me help!” 

And Ignis, rising smoothly from his bag: “Indeed.”

So. That was that. Nothing complicated. Nothing messy. They’re clearly handling it fine. 

And Gladio ain’t gonna be the weak link.

Besides, no one is going to spot them unless they want them to, so it’s not like he should be complaining. They’ve been alone, which is better than Insomnia. Now, though, that’s biting them in the butt. Turns out some of the places Gladio thought survived the long dark haven’t.

Case in point: the grove of trees that used to be about fifteen miles west of here. An easy hike, for them to make by nightfall, but Eos apparently has other ideas. 

(Those ideas being: based on the horizon, the trees are long gone.) 

So. If he doesn’t want Ignis and Prompto to turn into tomatoes, or get ambushed by some hungry animals in the middle of the night, then they need to find a damn car that’s willing to let them hitch a ride to the nearest actual haven. Either that, or all of them have to keep one eye open and interrupt the sleep he knows none of them are getting in the first place.

Which: no. 

Not that he’s been able to make anything happen on that front. No damn cars.

“We could just… camp out somewhere higher ground?” Prompto offers now, still in that same tone as before. Gladio forces himself out of his thoughts to look at him, and Prompto straightens slightly. “I mean– no daemons anymore, right? So…”

As he speaks, he sniffs, voice still slightly nasally from the swollen black and blue of his nose. Ignis and Cindy did their best, but potions are a commodity worth more than gold nowadays, given that making isn’t on the table anymore. With magic gone, and no way to resupply, the only people who have curatives of any kind now are those lucky enough to have stumbled into stocks during the long dark. 

Using one for a broken nose would be wasteful. The stocks at HQ and in Insomnia ran out a long time ago; Cor, Gladio knows, would kill for more. 

The thought makes the two sitting quietly in Gladio’s bag feel like some scandalous secret. 

To be fair, it’d been an accident, really, finding them. He hadn’t been looking– more like stumbled on them that last week in Insomnia during a standard patrol, passing by a shop that’d long since been looted. Gladio had almost walked right by it, if he’s being honest; there’s only so many broken-down buildings you can go through before you start to feel like you’re mourning people and not rubble.

But– something about the building, the warped sign and the faded paint, had made him stop.

And then, as always, a memory:

“Hi, welcome to Cecil’s Cameras, what can I– uhhhhhhhh, guys?!”

“Heya, Blondie.”

“Good evening, Prompto.”

And Noctis, a small smile on his lips: “Wow, Prom. Didn’t know you had to wear a uniform.”

It’d frozen Gladio in place, outside that shattered, dingy window. Because even fifteen years later, he could picture it perfectly: Prompto’s embarrassed face at being visited at work by his friends for the first time; how pleased Noctis had looked, to have made him turn pink; Ignis’ fond expression, as Prompto insisted on treating them like customers and dragged Noctis over to a display to show them the new state-of-the-art camera they’d just gotten in yesterday. 

“A good idea,” Ignis had commented later, Noctis and Prompto conked out on the couch with controllers held limply in their hands. “Noct certainly would have felt too shy on his own. Insightful, Gladio.”

And Gladio’s entire chest had gone warm. 

“Well, you know. It’s the small things.”

The small things, like a little camera shop run over by daemons and darkness. Gladio had hovered, for a moment, in the still-rebuilding Insomnian streets– and then gone inside. 

If he’d been asked what he was looking for, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. Didn’t want to think about it really; just known that something made his feet move, right to the center of the destroyed interior, shelves rusted and twisted and half-melted from Ifrit’s fire. 

Wanted to– he didn’t know. And that’s when he spotted it.

The safe.

“Mr. Harvey um, helps people out, sometimes,” Prompto had explained, years after that first visit. Seventeen, maybe? He’d had a bit of his growth spurt by then, and Gladio can remember his earnest expression well, when Noctis had peeked behind the counter and saw the safe sitting there. “You know, people who aren’t doing so well. So it’s for them.”

“What’s in it?”

“Potions, things like that. Antidotes, I think? Oh, and some cat food, he has me unlock it to feed Mr. Bingles sometimes…” 

Noctis had stocked the safe to the brim, once he heard about the cats. And there Gladio was, staring at it so many years later: some relic of a life and man long dead, taken out in the initial wave of darkness. 

It’d taken him a moment to gather up the courage to send the text. 

Hey, remember that camera shop you used to work for? What was the safe code? 

Not that he’d even expected anything. That little shop was nothing but dust and bones, just like so many places were. So…

16124, Prompto had texted back, fast. He didn’t even ask why Gladio was talking about it in the first place–just gave it, and that had nagged Gladio for hours: the lack of questions. Daughter’s birthday.

In another world, Gladio would have laughed about that. Because of course, even fifteen years later, through hell and back, Prompto had remembered some five-digit code from his minimum wage high school job. That was the thing about Prompto, though: maybe he was a clutz, but if it was something personal, something human, he could remember details like it was nothing. He knew Ignis’ preferred knife brand, and Gladio’s favorite book series, and everything, everything about Noctis. 

Gladio hadn’t let himself sit in that thought too long. Instead, he’d opened the lock. Holding his breath, even though he shouldn’t, because hope was a dangerous thing. 

But there they’d been. Just like he remembered: fifteen tiny glass bottles full of sparkling blue liquid. 

“Fuck," he’d said eventually, because fifteen potions. Fifteen of ‘em— an afterthought in a past life, but now it was like he’d just walked into a casino and won their entire lottery. 

Blue. So blue, so reminiscent of– 

Gladio had brought them to their apartment. Gazed at them for a long time; thinking. 

In the end, he’d made his decision. Offered one to Prompto first, who had stared at the vials with huge eyes. Opened and closed his mouth a few times before saying, quiet, “No, nah, that’s– someone else will need them more, y’know?”

And Gladio had known. He’d known in the same way he had all those years ago, standing in the camera shop as Noctis delivered the bright blue of his magic in small, miracle-sized flasks to a very grateful owner. There were some things you couldn’t be selfish about. 

So Gladio had put each potion back into the safe as delicately as he could. Dropped them off at Cor’s office the next morning to a slap on the back and a huge grin–and hoped that maybe, the people who received them would remember just how much they owed their fallen king, now twice over. 

But he’d kept two, before doing that.

It woulda been guiltily, if it was for anyone else. But it’d been two for Ignis– which has changed to one for Ignis, and one for Prompto, now that they’re traveling together, and Gladio thinks his past self was a genius for that particular accident.

Not that Gladio has told either of them yet, because—well. He knows if he does then they might get used on him, if things go truly bad, and that ain’t the point of why he grabbed them. 

If something happens to him, fine; Gladio made peace with dying a long time ago, when the population was halved and then halved again. But if it’s a matter of life and death for Prompto or Ignis? Like hell he’s just gonna sit by.

Screw that. The potions in his pack, the ones carefully hidden away–they help him sleep at night, is all. 

Just in case.

Anyways. Point is, it’ll take a few weeks before Prompto’s nose is all healed up. And despite the fact that he’s right –no more daemons, so whatever’s out here won’t kill them– it ain’t exactly prime real estate to settle down in, even if they were all in tip top shape. 

“Gigantuar territory,” Gladio tells him, and it’s enough of an explanation in and of itself. Prompto makes a face. 

“Oh, ew.”

Ew is right. Gladio is the last person in the world to complain about camping— but even he draws the line at waking up with a bunch of needles pointed in your face and ready to fire. 

“I don’t mind taking watch, though,” Gladio adds, because at this rate, no cars are coming. Not like he sleeps much nowadays, anyways. “Get a fire going, have some weapons at the ready,” –as if all of them don’t permanently have their weapons on them– “and anything too nasty is gonna turn tail and run.” 

Prompto looks torn. Judging by how the sun has baked him pink the last few days, despite getting practically bucketloads of sunscreen at Hammerhead, Gladio doesn’t blame him. Guy must be longing for a little bit of shade. 

To his surprise, Ignis is the one who speaks up. 

“If it is unsafe, our best course is still your initial plan.” 

Gladio holds back a wince. Ignis’ voice is perfectly calm —a little hoarse, given he hasn’t talked much since the urgent moments after Prompto broke his nose, not unless Gladio or Prompto coax a sentence out of him— but he knows it’s just practicality winning out over any actual want. Ignis has always been level-headed like that; and if Gladio is being honest, one of them has to be. 

Because he can’t stop feeling like… like they have to run.

It’s dumb, it really is, and he knows that. But everywhere Gladio looks, things are too familiar and too different all at once. 

The land around them, absent of color; the sky above them, which he still half-expects will turn dark at any moment as some sick last joke from the Astrals; hell, even how long it feels like it’s taking to get from place to place, without the familiar comforts of conversation. 

And even though it’s far, far out of sight, Insomnia still looms heavy.  

He doesn’t want to think about what happens when they eventually have to cross through Lestallum, and from the way Prompto has been leaving out the faint glow from the meteorshards that’ve been painting the sunset hints of red in his descriptions to Ignis the past few days, he’s not the only one. 

So yeah, Ignis is technically right: the car is the best option. But Gladio really doesn’t want to get back on that damn road, where memories hit so hard he almost stumbles from them. 

“Well,” Prompto is digging through their packs now, and Gladio forces himself back to the present. “We have enough for a few days, right? If we don’t find a ride?”

He sounds hopeful. Gladio can’t blame him. “Yeah, I think so. Iggy?”

He knows the answer, but he wants to hear Ignis’ voice again. To his relief, Ignis lightly clears his throat. “Three, approximately.”

Prompto nods again. “Okay. So we, um, hitch a ride, then go to… Digyth haven?”

“If we walk fast enough once someone drops us off,” Gladio agrees, trying not to sound doubtful. They’ve been setting a steady pace, but he thinks they’re gonna have to slow down soon– Prompto and Ignis just aren’t consuming enough food for the hard hiking they’d need to do to reach that goal. 

He doesn’t know how to even begin addressing that, though. So. 

Instead, he goes over to join them at the packs. 

“Iris says Ausace is up and running again,” he continues, mainly for something to say. Prompto perks up, and Ignis makes a soft noise of approval in his throat; he must have heard it too then. “They don’t have much, though, just some folks from HQ stopping looters.” 

Prompto’s mouth twists into a grimace. “Ugh.” 

Yeah, ugh is spot on. Even Ignis seems to tense up at the mention of them. Gladio doesn’t blame him; no one wants to talk about the shit humanity did when worst came to worst. Poaching, killing, kidnapping–the very dregs of society all scurrying out like roaches. Some assholes had even started to try and get chocobos near the end there. 

Wait– chocobos. A sudden idea strikes him. 

“Hey,” he realizes, and Prompto glances over at him. “Wiz’s place isn’t too far from the direction we’re headed. We could hitch a ride there instead if you want, I bet a hunter would do it if we bartered.”

Last he heard, Wiz took good care of the chocobos during the long dark. If they go, they’ll definitely be able to see some; birdbrains are probably eager for greens. 

Maybe that’ll help with–

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Prompto says quickly, squashing the hope before it can even form fully in Gladio’s head. When Gladio raises an eyebrow at him, he shifts on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m– um, good.”

Gladio has no idea what to do with that. 

“You sure?”

Even Ignis has his head tilted. “It is as good as any other direction.”

Prompto flushes deep under their attention. “No, it’s— nah,” he repeats, and shifts. He glances at Ignis and bites his lip, holding his bag closer to his chest. “Let’s just catch a ride or hike, yeah? Nice and simple.” 

His hands have curled into the worn cloth— the telltale sign he’s withdrawing into himself again. Gladio backs off quick; he’s learned how to spot that, the last few days, and he’s not interested in making Prompto regret coming along. “Sure, yeah. You got it.”

Prompto’s entire body relaxes. “Cool.”

Ignis doesn’t say anything. 

Right. Gladio turns back to the road, squinting. He wonders if there’s a way for them to fashion something out of their gear if no one ends up coming by. Maybe in the past they could have had whatever they needed on hand to rig a makeshift haven up, but since there isn’t an Armiger without–

He swallows. Well. They’ve just had to pack lighter than what the three of them were used to, last time they were near here. 

“Gladio.”

Gladio jumps, glancing back at Ignis. His head is tilted, a slight furrow between his brows; Prompto is already looking at him too, which means Ignis said something before, and Gladio missed it. 

“What’s up?”

“I believe I heard something.”

Gladio’s heart leaps. He swings back to the road, squinting harder– and there it is. A tiny trail of dust, off in the distance.

“Oh thank the Six,” he groans, as the unmistakable putter of an engine finally makes its way to his ears. Prompto leaps to his feet, expectant; Ignis stands more slowly, shoulders tight.

All of them, Gladio realizes, have also reached for their weapons. 

“Game plan?” Gladio double checks as the car itself comes into view. It’s some ragged red thing– a truck? Gladio knows shit-all about cars. He waves frantically anyway. “We try to hitch a quick ride, maybe spend a few hours restocking tomorrow morning just in case? Continue along the outskirts of the road?”

“Sounds good to me,” Prompto offers shyly. 

And Ignis, after a moment, “I will follow you both.”

And that’s– gods, Gladio doesn’t even know how to explain how hard their words hit him. The world has ended and started again, and everything around them is dirt and ash, and maybe they don’t talk much, but…

But standing there, both of their bodies expectantly tilted his way, gives him the strength to step forward.

They’re here, he reminds himself. Ain’t nothing more important than that. 

“Want to take bets if it’s someone we know?” he tries, because if he lets the feeling sit in him he’s gonna combust or something. It earns a startled laugh from Prompto, and a raised eyebrow from Ignis.

“No way!” Prompto says, grinning. “I always lose bets with you.”

“Little to bet with,” Ignis adds, but he sounds just at the edge of amused, so Gladio will take it.

“Yeah, yeah. Spoilsports.”

The car is within shouting range now; Gladio waves his arms more vigorously, hoping against hope they won’t just be driven past. In a flash, Prompto is hovering close to Ignis’ side and whispering at him under his breath.

“It’s red, kind of old– a GF I think? Oh, um, Guardian Force, they’re like– big tires, and a square back, kind of like Talcott’s but smaller…”

He’s been doing that for the whole trip: describing things, like it’s natural. Not for the first time, Gladio is pathetically grateful he’s come along. 

The driver of the truck has finally noticed them. Gladio waits as it starts to slowly reduce its speed, the tires crunching on the rocky road. From here, he can make out the person’s face: an older gentleman with wrinkles all over his hands and eyes, squinting at them through the gray dust that the car is kicking up. 

Hunter, maybe, but not one Gladio recognizes. Damn. Glad they didn’t take bets now. 

“Well howdy there,” the man calls over his engine, voice croaky with age or ash, Gladio isn’t sure. There’s caution in his eyes— a shotgun in his free hand, too, which gets much more firmly held as soon as he spots Gladio’s sword slung over his back— but he slows down more anyways. “Y’all alright?”

“Hey,” Gladio calls back. He holds his hands up, trying to look non-threatening, as Prompto inches forward, Ignis still hanging back in the shade. “Ain’t gonna cause trouble, just hoping for a ride.”

The driver’s eyes flick from Gladio to Prompto (noting the gun and the nose, tensing further), and then to Ignis. To his credit, he doesn’t relax when he realizes Ignis is blind. Just holds his shotgun steady. 

“Yeah?” he echoes, slow, and Gladio nods.

“Yeah.”

For a moment, they size each other up. Behind him, Ignis shifts, and Prompto fidgets. Not that Gladio blames any of them: ten years of darkness does shit to things like trust. It’s just as dangerous for them to be asking for a ride as it is for this guy to give it. 

Then, very slowly, the driver puts the car in park. He sighs. 

“Alright, I’ll bite. Any of you boys know about cars?” 

“Mighty fine job, that is,” the driver –Chipp, and y’all’s names are?– says an hour later, as the four of them putter down the road towards the nearest tent city. He whistles, patting the dashboard with an air of reverence. “Prompto, right?”

From where he’s seated next to Gladio, Prompto jumps. 

“Er, yes sir?”

Chipp looks back at him in the review mirror. “You’re a godsdamn savior, son.” 

The world is passing by fast, Leide bleeding into Duscae as they make their way along. Unlike Talcott’s truck, the back of this one has a cover, shading them from the sun; with Prompto’s ears tinted, and the small sliver of skin that Ignis has exposed at his wrists red, Gladio is thanking their lucky stars for it. Despite the sticky heat and sweat, it’s almost pleasant: the road bumps under them, the rattling static of the radio filling the space between the small talk Chipp has been making with them from the moment they got in. 

Even Ignis has started to relax slightly from where he’s tucked against the window, sitting quiet and proper. That, among everything else, is what eases Gladio into letting his guard down a little.

Prompto, though, still looks like a startled rabbit at being addressed. When he blinks, openly hesitant, Chipp sighs wistfully. 

“Haven’t had A/C in this thing since my niece was pregnant for the first time, and she’s on her fourth one,” he tells them, and Prompto blinks.

“Oh!” he says, tension whooshing out of him even as he starts to flush. He rubs the back of his neck. “Um, no problem.” 

“No, son, I mean it. I could kiss ya, if I didn’t have to keep my eyes on this damn road.”

Gladio snorts. Prompto’s face has gone bright pink. 

“Aw,” he mumbles, and, when Gladio nudges him lightly, blushes harder. “It’s nothing, really.”

Gladio rolls his eyes. Right. Nothing. Totally nothing that Prompto, who had piped into the awkward silence there on the road with a quiet, “Um, I– kind of know car stuff?”, was then able to single-handedly get them a ride without having to barter anything. No big deal at all.

Never mind that he didn’t know a lick about cars when Gladio met him, or showed any interest, or even owned a car at all. Hell, it’d been Ignis –Ignis– who was the car person in their group. Ignis, who would rather die than get oil on any of his perfectly ironed dress shirts, and if that didn’t speak volumes for their general lack of anything, then the number of times they had to visit Cindy over the years sure did.

And Prompto just opened up this guy’s hood and got to work like it was nothing. Like suddenly he’s a car genius. 

“The condenser still needs work, though,” Prompto adds now, like his mind is still under said car with all the grease and gray dust. “I don’t know who has it in stock, but the R-134A is pretty good.”

Chipp raises his eyebrows, clearly interested. “Yeah?”

“Yep! For old cars like this, you want to stick with the Rs. The S refrigerants only work on the new stuff.” Seeming to realize what he just implied, Prompto flushes again, and hurriedly tackles on, “Not that old is bad!”

Thankfully, Chipp just laughs. “Don’t I know it.”

With that, Prompto blushes even harder, looking back down at his hands. Which, importantly, are still covered with half wiped-off grease.

So, yeah. To say Gladio is interested in this new development is a giant, dualhorn-sized understatement. 

“Someone picked up some skills the last ten years,” he quips, trying to make it sound teasing instead of curious. Ignis shifts in his seat, just slightly; Prompto fidgets.

“Oh, y’know. Just, um, glad I could help.”

“You in the business?” Chipp asks, which is perfect, because Gladio wasn’t going to. 

Prompto looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“No, not really.” He holds his bag more firmly in his lap, fiddling with one of the straps. Chipp is looking expectantly at him in the mirror, which is basically the key to get Prompto to spill anything. It works– but Gladio doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick quickly to Ignis, before he swallows and adds, “Um, a friend of mine– she owns a garage? And I helped out a bit, y’know, during the dark.”

He doesn’t offer anything more, sealing his lips tight. Gladio turns that over in his head. Huh. He glances at Ignis, curiosity still simmering quietly in his chest. But… 

“I thought–” he starts, and then stops. Because Ignis and Prompto, as soon as they hear his voice, go stiff.

He stares at them. Thinks: oh. 

Ain’t the first time he’s stumbled onto a hurt he shouldn’t. And maybe Gladio is just being slow on the uptake, but, well…

When he’d– when Gladio had left, Ignis and Prompto had still been living together. 

All three of them had, at the start. A tiny little place in Lestallum, because Ignis was helping run the city and that was a perk of the job, if you could call it that. When Gladio took tail and ran –after the fight, after everything– Ignis and Prompto didn’t seem to be having any problems. He’d thought they’d stayed together for the rest of it, until the day that the call had come and destiny had returned the one hope humanity had to the world.

But the way Prompto worked earlier, the focus, the knowledge of a car that must be a good twenty years old at this point… Well. It’s not the skill of someone who just dabbled in repair a few times over the years. 

It was practiced. Honed.

And he wouldn’t have gotten that in Lestallum. 

(He wouldn’t, Gladio thinks with a looming sense of dread, gotten that if he’d stayed with Ignis.)

“Well, consider me lucky then,” Chipp says easily, because he’s not aware the three people he picked up have emotional baggage the size of Cavaugh, or that Gladio’s head is spinning, because that means– how long were they apart? “What about you two?”

The question is directed at Gladio and Ignis. For his part, Prompto looks relieved to no longer be the focus of attention, burying himself in his bag; Gladio forces his brain to cooperate.

“Hunter.”

Closest he can get to it, at least. Chipp hums, adjusting the side mirrors as the sun slants overhead. “Well ain’t that something. Both of you?”

Gladio glances at Ignis. Uncertainty still feels like a new territory between them, one difficult to navigate and even more difficult to look at– but as always, Ignis must sense his gaze. Or maybe he just knows, after all this time, where Gladio’s eyes always end up settling.  

Doesn’t matter either way. Ignis tilts his head, just slightly, their own silent language: Indeed. Close enough. 

But he doesn’t speak it. 

“Yeah. Been in the business for a bit,” Gladio decides to say, because if that’s where Ignis wants to leave it then he’s fine with that, too. He clears his throat, leaning back against the cracked leather of the car. “You know how it is nowadays. You got a weapon and half a lick of common sense, you’re recruited.”

That earns a sigh.

“Don’t I know it,” Chipp mutters, and rolls his shoulders back. It’s a familiar motion– one Ignis used to do when he drove for too long, and it sends a wave of nostalgia sweeping through Gladio. “Well, I’m surprised I even ran into ya. Not many people take that road anymore.”

That was the point, Gladio wants to say. He thinks of Ignis this morning, slow motions; of Prompto, nervous energy that hasn’t been quite right.

“Lucky us,” he settles with instead. Chipp shrugs.

“Lucky or not, my car has you to thank.” They’re transitioning fully into Duscae now: Gladio can see the familiar lines of the Disc of Cauthess getting clearer. It makes him think of Iris, of the call he knows he needs to make. Maybe it’s that distraction, but when Chipp continues, Gladio is caught off guard. “So, what, y’all making a road trip? Seeing family or something?”

Prompto plays with his seatbelt, quiet. Ignis doesn’t move. Chipp has his eyebrows raised, expectant; and Gladio feels exhausted again, a bone deep weariness. 

This is why he didn’t want to take a ride. 

“Yeah. My sister.”

Even to him, it sounds half-hearted. Gladio knows he should say more. Man has given him an out, if he wants it; because Gladio could easily lie, add to the story. Say something about how they didn’t have a car, so they’re hiking to Lestallum for a visit. Wouldn’t even be a stretch– Iris is there.

But…

Family. Whenever Gladio thinks about it, he…

“Well, glad to hear it,” Chipp says into the silence, and Gladio lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. 

“Yeah. Uh, you mentioned your niece?”

“Keeping the farm up and running like an angel,” Chipp says proudly, and Gladio nods, jerky. 

“Good. That’s– good.”

Six know that at least some families haven’t been torn apart. The truck bumps, the potions heavy in his bag; for the first time he wonders if Mr. Harvey’s daughter, the one who’s birthday he now has to thank for them, was so lucky.

He pushes down the wave of nausea.

“Well.” With the ease of someone who is used to brushing by things, probably because half the world has something they don’t wanna talk about nowadays, Chipp moves on. “Whatever’s brought ya out here, don’t worry. Happy to get ya where you need.”

“Thanks, sir. We appreciate it.”

“You saved our butts,” Prompto adds, jumping back in with his usual earnest shyness, and Chipp chuckles. 

“Yeah, yeah, careful, or you’ll give this old man an ego.” His eyes flick to Ignis, still unmoving, before settling back on the road. “Hot day out today, ain’t it? Y’all look half dead– you wanna nap, ain’t no problem to me. We’ll be at Killiam around dusk, I reckon.”

Gladio leans back, ready to say, Sounds good, even though there’s no way he’s gonna sleep in a strangers car, but it doesn’t hurt to be polite at the offer—

“Apologies, but did you say Killiam?”

Gladio blinks, turning to Ignis. Sometime between now and Chipp speaking, he’s sat straight up, focus away from the window and to the driver’s seat instead. It takes Gladio aback, if he’s being honest; since the polite introduction at the side of the road where they exchanged names, Ignis hasn’t said anything, let alone to Chipp. 

But if Chipp is surprised to be addressed, he doesn’t show it. “Yep!” he says cheerily, and carefully takes a turn when the road branches, following the less torn-up option. “That was the area y’all were hoping for, right?”

The air conditioning rattles. Ignis' hands twitch again on his lap.

“We,” Ignis’ voice is light and neutral, “were hoping for Digyth, if possible.”

Gladio blinks at him. There’s something careful in Ignis’ tone– but Gladio doesn’t know why. Digyth was just one of the random ideas Prompto threw out as a general area for them to bunker down in for the night. Given they don’t know where they’re going still, just away, he can’t think of why it would matter where they camp down tonight. 

Hell, now that he thinks on it, he kind of prefers Killiam. They hadn’t ever gone there with–before.

Chipp frowns. “Digyth? Haven’t y’all heard the news?” When they just blink at him, Ignis tilting his head slightly, he sighs. “Entire place is packed full as a can ‘o sardines.”

Gladio blinks. “What?”

“Yeparoo,” Chip says, and huffs. “Surprised you boys didn’t know already. Half the havens are filled to the damn brim, apparently someone back in good old Crown City made a plan to open up borders.”

Gladio glances at Ignis. Oh. 

“Ain’t a problem, mind you,” Chipp continues, unaware. “I don’t got any bad blood with refugees, people can come from wherever they like.” (Next to Gladio, Prompto, who had started fidgeting with his wristband, relaxes slightly.) “People need help, and I don’t blame ‘em. But if y’all try to get in, HQ will turn you away flat.”

Huh. Gladio sneaks another look at Ignis. Given that it was him who wrote that new border policy, Gladio doubts that. Hell, even if the HQ people stationed there didn’t know Ignis, they would know Gladio or Prompto. 

But Chipp doesn’t exactly have that information, and based on Ignis’ flawlessly blank expression, he doesn’t plan to tell him either.  

“I see,” he says instead. 

Perfectly flat. Alarm bells start going off in Gladio’s head.

There’s a quiet tension in Ignis’ body as he leans back against the seat again, turning his cheek to the window. And it ain’t that different than before, sure, but the more Gladio stares at him, the more he feels– off.

He glances at Prompto, who’s biting his lip and staring at Ignis too. 

“I’d offer to take ya to Ausace, but my baby ain’t gonna make those roads without bustin’ a tire,” Chipp inserts into the sudden quiet, as Gladio wars with whether or not to ask Ignis if there’s a problem. To Chipp’s credit, he has the decency to actually sound apologetic about it– but Ignis just shakes his head, smooth and elegant. 

“Not necessary. I was simply curious.” 

The car bumps over a stray rock, jostling them all. Gladio has just gotten up the courage to open his mouth and prod into the idea that they can go somewhere else when Ignis shifts, tucking his pack against his window like a makeshift pillow.

“I believe I’ll take you up on the offer to rest in the meantime,” he adds– and just like that, Gladio’s plans of probing, subtle or not, are crushed. 

Chipp doesn’t notice. “Gonna be a bumpy ride! Hope you’re ready.”

“Not a problem.”

Tension hangs between the three of them in the backseat for a moment. Prompto is a bundle of nerves again: eyes to Ignis, then Gladio, skittering back and forth. He seems confused, which is a relief at least; not another secret that they know but Gladio doesn’t, one Gladio has to try and toe around. For a second, Gladio hopes that Ignis might say something anyways, help explain why he’d even asked in the first place.

But he doesn’t.

He just leans back instead, his unseeing eye fluttering shut. 

“I’ll wake you when we’re nearby,” Gladio offers softly, and Ignis hums. 

“Appreciated.” 

There’s the shift of fabric on old leather, the settling of limbs– and then it goes, somehow, even quieter. 

Maybe he really is just tired. Gladio eyes the untouched lunch at his side; he should start going slower, make Prompto and Ignis match his pace so they don’t push themselves. 

Next to him, Prompto shifts. He’s chewing the inside of cheek; Gladio sees him hesitate, sending one last look at Ignis. Then he turns to the front of the car.  

“Um,” he starts in a whisper, and leans forwards toward Chipp. It brings him away from Gladio, from where their shoulders were almost touching; Gladio doesn’t know why he notices it, just that he does. “Sir? I wanted to let you know, when I was looking at your engine, your oxygen sensor was also a little off…”

Chipp starts interrogating him immediately, thankfully keeping it down. Gladio lets the lull of their conversation fade to the back of his thoughts, the ebb and flow of discussion. He sits as the world passes by outside, as afternoon turns to early evening, the miracle of the sun making its way across the sky. 

And he watches Ignis, the controlled up and down of his chest, and wonders what could be so terrible that he’s pretending to sleep.

There’s a…moment that Gladio keeps coming back to. 

If he’s being honest, it’s been hanging over him since it happened: back in Hammerhead on that first day, sitting in Takka’s diner. The sun had been blazing outside, hot and bright, making Gladio’s shirt stick to his skin. Inside, tucked into the faded reds and whites of the booth, it hadn’t been much better; only the lucky or rich have A/C nowadays, and when the person who would have to agree to install it again is Cid, stubborn and survivable as a bull, there’s no chance in hell. 

But at that moment, Gladio hadn’t even noticed. Hadn’t cared. He’d been so damn chock full of relief that dumb details like those had faded out altogether. 

“Hey, Prompto.” 

Across from him, Prompto had glanced up. 

He’d been a sorry sight— still bloody, bandages on his elbows and hands. Black and blue, and Gladio had wanted to reach out and double check him again, just in case. He hadn’t, of course. He’d kept his hands under the plastic booth to hide how badly they were shaking instead. 

“Yeah?” Prompto’s voice had been nasally and thick, which hadn’t helped the wild impulse thrumming in Gladio’s veins one bit. He’d tried to turn to him– and was immediately scolded by several voices in sync. 

“Hey now blondie!”

“Easy there, Prom! Do ya want your nose to grow back straight or not?”

“Prompto, please stay still,” Ignis had murmured; softer than Takka and Cindy, who had reacted like a damn bomb was just about to go off, but somehow standing out the most anyways. Gladio had watched, torn between amusement and some type of gut twisting fondness, as Prompto scrambled to obey them all.

“Sorry, sorry!” he’d squeaked. When Ignis had gently grabbed his face again to resume his fretting —because that was what it was, truly, him and Cindy bustling around like he’d gotten mauled by a Red Giant— Prompto had started to fidget aggressively. Face bright red (the sunshine, Gladio had thought, because damn did he burn easy), eyes skittering to Ignis and away again. “My bad!”

And Ignis, soft: “This may hurt.”

It must have, Gladio was sure. After all, how many noses and ribs and bones had he broken himself over the years, serving as Shield? How many times was it him that Ignis was huffily holding still or dragging to a medic, the calluses of his fingers gentle and precise as he checked how bad it was? 

Something had ached in him, a painful twist.

“It’s alright,” Prompto had reassured Ignis, and that had made Gladio roll his eyes— because of course Prompto didn’t care. But the motion had drawn Prompto’s attention back to him, wide-eyed and remembering. “Oh, sorry big guy! What were you saying?”

Gladio had drawn in a breath. 

“You have a destination in mind? I meant it when I said Iggy and I didn’t know. If there’s somewhere you wanna be…” He’d trailed off. Wondering. Hoping– not knowing.

“Oh,” Prompto had breathed. And maybe Gladio wasn’t the only one still feeling like there were a thousand bubbles in his chest, because he’d still had that stunned, awestruck grin on his face. The grin that Gladio hadn’t seen for three months, not until an hour prior– tucked away under something too heavy that none of them talked about. The one that reminded Gladio of Ignis’ mouth, tilted up at the corners; of laughter and photographs and smooth leather seats. Stupidly endearing and dorky all at once as he straightened up. “No! No, I’ll go anywhere!”

The relief had been titanic— strong, so strong that it took everything in him not to let his voice shake. “You sure?”

“Yes! Yeah, I mean it, wherever you want–”

Ignis’ voice, still infinitely patient: “The ice pack, Prompto.”

“Ah, sorry Iggy—”

And Gladio had seen it then, on Ignis’ face. A faint trill of amusement, there in his good eye; a quiet crinkle at the corner, as Prompto tripped over himself trying to please. Something of before, when Ignis had tilted his head just slightly in his direction, a tiny smile on his mouth like he knew Gladio would be watching. And Gladio couldn’t help but think about how Ignis’ back was facing the door, exposed to the treacherous world outside. How on the walk back, he’d let Gladio lead; how Prompto hadn’t even looked where he was going, either, just followed. 

Because, Gladio had realized, he was there. Gladio was. 

Oh, he’d thought. Over and over. Undeserving, and taken aback, and wanting, more than he’d ever wanted anything, to not monumentally fuck the chance up. Oh. 

He doesn’t know why he can’t stop replaying it, so many days later. But for whatever reason, that moment, that feeling– it lingers. 

And he can’t fucking sleep. 

The soft noises from Killiam Outpost creep in from outside their tent as Gladio’s mind turns over itself, darkness coating the space peeking through the flap. The light from their fire flickers across the fabric as shadows –people– move about; bartering, setting up, the familiar whispers of casual conversation passing between strangers. 

“...supposed to be fifty gil a piece…”

“He said he’s heading out tomorrow, a new hunt…”

“...pass the whiskey, would you?”

Gladio watches their dark outlines from where he’s lying on his side in his sleeping bag, the taffeta smooth and worn against his cheek. Inside the tent, it’s still– just the up and down of Prompto’s unsteady breathing as he dreams. 

It’s been rough, tonight. Lots of whimpers. Not that Gladio has room to judge; sometimes he wakes up from a nightmare and Ignis and Prompto are a bit too still to be truly asleep.

Just one of the side effects of war, he supposes. You get used to pretending not to hear.

Still, Gladio feels too hot and bundled, even more so than usual. Restless. Something is grating at the edge of his teeth, and no matter how much he closes his eyes and counts backwards, his mind just won’t shut up. 

When another tiny whine escapes from Prompto’s side of the tent, he gives up on sleeping. 

The fabric under him shifts as he sits up, as slow and quiet as he can manage with his own size. Against the far wall, he can just make out the shape of Prompto’s body under his blankets as he sleeps; when the sun is down, the chill seeps back in, and he and Ignis have always run cold, so just a sleeping bag won’t cut it for them. Thankfully, what they packed seems to be doing the job–a quick look shows that he’s not shivering. When Gladio turns to check on Ignis and make sure he’s bundled up as well, his stomach drops.

Ignis’ sleeping bag is empty.

For a single moment, it feels like someone just pressed knife to his throat. A thousand thoughts run through his head– and then he sees a familiar shadow, tucked outside the entrance to the tent.

His breath leaves him in a rush. 

Right. Duh. Of course Ignis wouldn’t leave. 

Carefully, Gladio crawls towards the flap, hyperaware of the way Prompto shifts and mumbles something under his breath as he goes. His hand is poking out from one of the blankets, curled in on itself; with a huff, Gladio reaches out and adjusts the rough cotton, making sure he’s tucked in fully. 

Prompto shifts. “Hng?”

Something soft and tender blooms in Gladio’s chest.  “Easy, there,” he murmurs, and Prompto makes another quiet noise. “You’re good, Prom.”

Prompto sighs, a gentler one than before. Gladio watches as he nestles deeper into his cocoon, the way his breathing has steadied out; counts each rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his body underneath the cloth. 

The itch in his jaw grows. He shoves it aside. 

Ignis’ own blankets are still folded neatly by his pack; on a whim, Gladio grabs one and, when he’s sure Prompto has fallen fully back into sleep, slips out into the cool night air. 

Ignis is sitting by the fire, his unseeing gaze trained on the rest of the haven.

For a second, Gladio just looks at him. The fire flickers off his face, the rough skin of his scars creating small valleys and mountains of shadow against light as he stares forward. Compared to the space around them, he’s practically a statue; back straight, alert in a way he shouldn’t be at what Gladio is guessing must be two or three in the morning. 

When Gladio emerges, though, his head tilts, just slightly, in his direction. 

“Gladio.”

His voice is a little rough, pitched low. Gladio doesn’t bother to ask how he knows it’s him and not Prompto. 

“Hey,” he whispers back, coming over to sit next to him. The fire is pleasantly warm, washing everything in a faint red glow; as he settles down, branches crack under his weight. He’s careful not to intrude in his space, but Ignis shifts anyways, like he’s ready to move if Gladio gets too close. Touch-shy, now. “Everything okay?”

Ignis nods, his focus back on the rest of the haven. Gladio looks him over, wondering how long he’s been out here, trying to find hints in the curve of his shoulders and the lines of his mouth. There’s a flash of something silver in his lap– his daggers, Gladio realizes with a jolt, staring at the elegant blades.

His stomach twists. Oh: Ignis is on guard.

Why?

“And you?” Ignis says, before Gladio can ask. Now that he’s looking for it, Gladio can see the tension in his hands curled around the metal, the way he’s tracking each person who moves by their space with an almost aggressive attention. 

This is more than Ignis on guard, he thinks in a rush. This is Ignis wired. Still, he tries not to pry. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah.”

“You?”

“Similar state.” 

Silence falls on them for a moment. Ignis is wearing his long sleeves still, just like he has for the whole trip, but Gladio can just make out the back of his neck, the faint goosebumps tracing across his skin.

Before he can chicken out, Gladio unfolds the blanket and wraps it around Ignis’ shoulders.

Ignis startles at the touch, just momentarily. His hands twitch on his lap as his head turns to Gladio; and then he seems to realize what it is, or maybe Gladio hasn’t burned as many bridges as he’d thought, because seconds later, Ignis relaxes into it.

“Gladio, really. There’s no need.”

To his relief, Ignis’ voice is fond despite the token protest. Gladio grins at him.

“C’mon, we both know I’m the furnace out of the two of us,” he retorts, letting his tone dip into playfulness. It’s true, too– he and Ignis have shared enough beds to be pretty damn familiar with their temperature differences by now. “Blanket or a big Amicitia cuddle pile, your choice, and we both know how that ends.”

Ignis’ mouth twitches up, just slightly. “It is hardly my fault you kick in your sleep.”

“I don’t know, Iggy, shoving me off the bed because of a little kick to the shin doesn’t seem very proper of you,” he teases, and Ignis sighs.

“You will never let me live that down, will you?” 

“Nope,” Gladio says cheerfully, because maybe they had been seven but that hardwood floor was cold, thank you very much. “If it helps, Iris is worse. I swear to Six she fights daemons in her sleep.”

That earns another rare smile. “I suppose Prompto wins the award for most polite sleeper, then.”

Gladio snorts. No kidding. Prompto is the only one out of all of them who somehow sleeps both lightly and completely unobtrusively. When inn beds were particularly small, and Ignis and Gladio couldn’t fit on one together, they’d always end up paired. Not that Gladio minded; Prompto was always hyperaware of how much space he took up. Unlike Ignis, who hogged the blankets, and Noctis–

He stops himself before he can go there. 

Ignis has gone quiet again. They sit like that for a moment– the pale blue of the wool on Ignis’ shoulders turned warm from the fire, Gladio’s own mind trying to dip back to ghosts and empty thrones. 

When Ignis speaks up, Gladio jumps. “We will hit Lestallum soon.”

The words send a cold through Gladio that has nothing to do with the night sky above them. “Yeah. A few days, probably.”

“Do you wish to resupply there?”

There’s a lilt to the question that stops Gladio’s automatic reply of probably from falling from his lips. He steals a glance at him (silly, that habit; Ignis can’t see him do it, but after years of subtle peeks and staring while trying not to, he can’t help it), and finds that Ignis is focused on a group of three men who are haggling over a rusted lance. 

He’s so still. So thin. Tense. Gladio can’t stop staring at his hands, curved around those blades.

There’s a part of Gladio’s memory that the dream this morning didn’t show him but that he remembers well anyways: the moment Ignis had arrived to the party. The whole thing had actually turned out to be a surprise, somehow –minor miracle, to sneak anything by Ignis– but it had been enough that he’d been flustered, trying to stumble out his own words as they all swarmed him with gifts and stupid party hats.

“Really, boys,” he’d sighed, as Noctis had put the party hat on his head: Mother-to-Be in neon purple letters, which had the other three of them dying from laughter. “Are we treating me, or harassing me?”

“You know you love it,” Gladio had shot back, because he could say things like that back then. Tease, and see Ignis’ mouth tilt up just slightly at the familiarity of it. 

“This is an HR violation.”

Still, he had let them take pictures. Let Gladio cut the cake, let them all chuckle as he oohed and aahed over Prompto’s double-hatching on the frosting farm roof, which had sent Prompto into one of his embarrassed, blabbering attempts at diverting the attention away from himself and to the photos he had just taken instead. 

“There was a chocobo one, but we liked this better,” he’d told Ignis as they dug into their slices of vanilla and orange, Ignis listening attentively and nodding at all the right spots. As if Prompto was discussing some important treaty, and not just photos of the sparkling wrapping paper from the one hundred Gil store that Prompto was showing him. “Plus a moogle one, but this one reminded us of your pens, and it was the right color…”

There’d been a small smile on Ignis’ face as Prompto talked and talked, Noctis hovering close by with frosting on his upper lip. Gladio remembers leaning against the counter and watching them, taking it in. Enjoying the way their shoulders had pressed together, the relaxation permeating the room like Ignis had somehow brought the spa home with him.

All of them there, in a tight huddle so they could look at the screen together, well within the bubble of space Prompto normally left around Ignis at all times. 

“...and the lady was really nice, she wanted the name of the kid and everything,” Prompto had finished, pink-cheeked. His eyes had kept darting to Ignis’ face as he spoke; gauging interest, maybe. “Noct had to figure out a due date.”

That had made Ignis laugh. “Oh?” He’d turned to Noctis, raising an eyebrow. “When am I expecting? I best be prepared.”

Noctis had rubbed the back of his neck. “I just gave them your birthday.”

As he had spoken, the party hat he’d shoved onto his own head slid a bit to the side. And from all the moments of that damn party, this next part is what Gladio thinks he’ll be able to remember until he dies: how –silently, instantly, like it was second nature– Ignis had reached out and readjusted it. 

Such an easy, simple motion. Accepted, too– because Noctis had startled at the touch, sure, but only for a moment. Then Prompto had started talking a mile a minute again, and Noctis had relaxed into Ignis’ fingers, letting him draw the string a bit tighter around his chin. 

Neither of them had spoken. Not a single word, as Ignis' thumb checked the space between the string and Noctis neck like a caress. 

Then Ignis’ hands were back in his lap, and Noctis’ eyes, which had been on the elegant curve of his wrist, had returned to Prompto’s enthusiastic story. 

Staring at Ignis’ hands now, Gladio is hit so hard with the memory that the back of his throat burns. Those elegant fingers had touched their king countless times like that: unassuming, steadying, a physical illustration of his devotion and faith. It’s so opposite of what they look like now: tense, waiting. Like a coiled spring around his daggers, movements measured not from a steadiness inside him but a forced, exterior control. 

They’re miles and miles from Insomnia, and Gladio still looks at Ignis and sees a ghost sometimes. 

He wonders what memories Ignis has.

So he bites back his automatic reply about supplying at Lestallum. Says instead, “Maybe,” and swallows. “We don’t have to, though. Could pick stuff up here.”

A moment of hesitation from Ignis. “The prices will be inflated.”

“Yeah, well.” Gladio shrugs. They’ve spent the entire trip dancing around why they’re sticking to back roads and havens, why they didn’t just ask HQ for a ride to the middle of nowhere in the first place. Maybe it’s that thought, or the memory of Prompto’s whimpers, or how he can’t stop looking at the damn daggers in Ignis’ lap– but he finds himself saying, “To be honest, I ain’t exactly looking forward to going there again.”

It feels almost too big– like a confession. But Gladio is… he’s tired.

Tired, and he can’t help but be honest, when it comes to Ignis. Their entire lives have been centered around it: small admissions of truth, shared in quiet spaces and silent looks.

Slowly, Ignis draws in a breath. When he first became blind, he would try and move his unscarred eye to where he thought a person was, as if he was looking at them. He doesn’t do that anymore—hasn’t since they grouped back up when Noctis returned, so probably even before then. 

He simply gazes, unseeing. Says, so quietly that Gladio almost misses it, “Indeed.” 

There is a deep, heavy weariness in his voice. Gladio is so struck by it– the admission, the exhaustion, his own tangled thoughts– that for a moment, he has no idea what to say.

“Guys?”

Gladio starts, turning towards the tent. Prompto’s face peeks out of him through the flap, dark shadows under his eyes.

The instant their gazes meet, Prompto’s entire body relaxes.

“Hey,” Gladio greets, as Ignis tilts Prompto’s way as well. Prompto’s clothes are rumpled as he slides out of the tent, still sleep-mussed; Gladio wonders if it was their voices or his own dreams that woke him up. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Prompto says instantly, clearly a knee-jerk response. He hovers by the tent, hesitant. “Uh, is everything…”

Okay? his voice implies. His eyes are darting between Gladio and Ignis. 

“Welcome to the no sleep club,” Gladio jokes, and pats the space next to him. “We’re talking about where to resupply.”

“Oh,” Prompto says, relaxing further. He inches over to them, and, when Ignis motions elegantly in permission, sits at where Gladio had indicated, the firelight turning the tips of his blonde hair orange. He didn’t bring a blanket with him; with a frown, Gladio starts to shrug out of his long sleeved shirt he’s taken to wearing to bed these days, earning a wide-eyed look. “Uh–?”

“Here,” Gladio says, and hands it over. The cold air nips at his skin, but he doesn’t mind.

Instantly, Prompto is protesting. “Wha, no, dude, it’s fine–”

“C’mon, Prom. You’re gonna freeze.”

“But–”

“Just take it, come on,” Gladio urges. Prompto is already turning pink from the cold, all the way up his face and ears; he rolls his eyes, shaking the shirt. “I’m not going to put it back on so you might as well use it.”

Unless you want to cuddle with Ignis, he almost adds, but catches it. Too soon. 

It only takes a few seconds of eye contact before Prompto caves. 

“I– well, if you’re sure…” he starts. Gladio watches, amused, as he slowly takes the shirt from his hands, hesitating for another moment before wriggling into it. It’s comically large on him, sleeves pooling well past his wrists, but Gladio can’t help but be pleased anyway. 

“There we go. Peak fashion.”

“Yeah right,” Prompto laughs, still pink from the cold. He shifts, fingers playing with the cloth. “You just want to show off your muscles, don’t you, big guy?”

“True consistency,” Ignis quips lightly, and it’s Gladio’s turn to laugh, the noise startled out of him. Even Prompto seems taken aback; that might be the first joke Ignis has let loose for months. 

“Well, you know me Iggy. Can’t help myself.”

“Gotta keep that ego going,” Prompto adds, settling into the familiar rhythm that Gladio had genuinely thought they’d lost. Ignis’ mouth twitches. Gladio snorts. 

“Yeah, yeah. Gang up on me, whatever, I can still bench press both of you combined.”

Prompto giggles, Ignis shaking his head once. The tension in the air has eased now that Prompto is with them; still, he watches Ignis’ hands twitch on his lap as a pair of women pass by their bubble of space, attention sharpening right alongside it.  

Gladio doesn’t know if Prompto notices, really. But he sees his gaze go to Ignis, and then Gladio again, and he says, “Um, so, resupplying?”

Right. Gladio clears his throat. “Yeah. How would you feel about skipping Lestallum?”

He’s pretty sure, even as he asks, that he knows the answer. But even if he hadn’t been, the pure relief that floods onto Prompto’s face at the question would be answer enough.

“Oh,” Prompto says, and it’d be cute in any other situation how he tries to hide the enthusiasm so clearly shining through in the word. He leans back a little, obviously aiming for casual, even as the slope of his shoulders smooths out, eyes brighter than they were moments before. “Yeah, that’d be– I’m chill with that.”

Gladio breathes a sigh of relief. Next to him, he can practically feel some of the frigid air around Ignis melt. 

“Great,” he says, and means it. There’s plenty of merchants to resupply with here; it’ll be easy to get enough to last them to the next spot. 

And that next spot is…? his traitorous mind prompts, and he can’t help the flashes of memory that rise up with it. Sothmocke Haven, where a poorly-timed pillow fight resulted in Ignis walking in the door with four overladen plates of food and immediately being smacked in the face by a warping Noctis trying to avoid a Prompto-Gladio teamup? River Wennath, where Noctis caught his first Argus Salmon and was so happy he did morning drills the next four days without a single complaint? Altissia, where everything fell apart so fast for all of them that Gladio sometimes still feels like he’s reeling from the freefall? 

Any trace of tiredness he might have been able to cling to is long gone. Ignis’ hands still haven’t left his daggers; Prompto, despite the shadows under his eyes, is openly alert, fiddling with the hem of Gladio’s shirt. 

He swallows, a new idea prodding for his attention. “Hey. What if we left now?”

That earns two looks.

“What, like– took off?” Prompto says, and Gladio nods.  

“Yeah. We’ve been stuck in the heat of the day, right? Bet we can make it to Coernix by afternoon if we get goin’. Take a nap once we get there and dodge the heat, or whatever.”

What he doesn’t say: none of us are going the fuck back to sleep, are we? 

What he also doesn’t say: I don’t think I can see those places in the daylight right now. 

To his relief, he doesn’t even need to consider speaking the thoughts out loud. Ignis has already shifted his entire attention to the topic with a nod of approval that, even for him, is fast. 

“It would be strategic,” he says neutrally, and for the first time, his grip on his daggers relaxes slightly. Gladio, therefore, immediately takes it as a yes, holy shit please, let’s get the hell out of this place. That in itself is motivation enough; still, ever polite, Ignis turns to Prompto. “Do you feel rested enough to continue?”

Gladio doesn’t point out that Ignis is the one who has probably been out here all night, keeping guard against an unseen threat that Gladio can’t bring himself to ask about. He’s too busy watching Prompto nod aggressively too, already scrambling to his feet again.

“Yeah,” he practically blurts, and Gladio blinks, taken aback by the strength of it. “Yeah, that’s good. I can clean up our stuff.” 

“I can assist.”

“I’ll resupply, then,” Gladio offers, surprised by how quick they both bit into the idea. He knows that he gets restless the longer they stay still, like if they don’t move fast enough the past will somehow catch up to them– but…

Well, he thinks, as Ignis stands too. Prompto is already back in the tent.

Maybe it’s not just him, after all. 

Later, looking back, Gladio still won’t know what makes him do it.

It’s five minutes after their hasty decision to leave. He’s standing at the general trading area in Killiam, trying to figure out how much food to buy. Doing the mental calculations in his head to sort out how much they can carry, what Prompto and Ignis will realistically eat with their current intake, and what he should try to have on hand for an emergency or if he somehow convinces them to go back to having normal-sized meals. 

Warring with the decision: practicality versus safety versus hope. Feels like he’s always doing that, these days. 

Shouldn’t be wasting time even thinking about it, though. Three days’ worth of food has been fine so far. It’s worked.

But as he’s standing there, an ice-cold wind blows through camp. It sends the nearby tents rustling, makes goosebumps pebble on his bare skin. A touch of winter, almost, which is silly, because it’s four months away at least.

Maybe the cold wakes him up. Or it’s different enough from all the crackling fires around him, Gladio will reason later, that it snaps him out of whatever mental calculations he was doing.

Whatever it is, he pauses.

Fuck it, he decides, staring down at the options. Why not? 

“Three week’s worth,” he tells the vendor. He points to the dried food, the protein bars, the jerky. “Thirty of each. Any fruit or fresh things you have, too.”

The vendor raises her eyebrows at him. “Goodness,” she drawls, “I think I might have a favorite customer of the week.” She leans forward, a clear invitation: you have my attention. “You sure, though? Gonna cost a Ravatogh’s worth of gil, and I ain’t one to barter down once I’ve set a price.”

The cold wind brushes against him, a quiet caress. Gladio glances back towards the direction of their tent, where Prompto and Ignis are no doubt waiting. He can’t see them, but he knows they’re there. 

“Yeah,” he says, turning back, and sets his bag of gil on the counter. “I’m sure.”

Dawn is just beginning to crest over the horizon when Ignis stops in the middle of the road. 

If he’s being honest, it takes Gladio a few moments to even realize he has. It’s been quiet since they left, as always. Chipp spotted them as they made their way out and was kind enough to offer them another ride– one Gladio was going to refuse before he saw the way Ignis himself had hesitated. 

“Hm,” he’d said, and Prompto had perked up a little at the noise, and that was that.

(It says a lot about how much Ignis must hate that place, Gladio thinks, that he was willing to take the tradeoff of talking to get away as fast as humanly possible.

It ain’t a comforting thought.)

“Happy to help,” Chipp had reassured them an hour later, when he dropped them off on another side road. One very much not heading towards Lestallum; southwest of the city instead, skirting just far enough from Cauthess that Gladio’s head hadn’t strayed too far into the past. “Good luck, boys. With whatever it is you’re looking for.”

Gladio hadn’t known how to respond. Thankfully, Chipp hadn’t given him a chance. He’d just driven off, and then it was him, Prompto, Ignis, and the darkness. 

Now, though, the world is returning to color. Not much –grey, brown, a trace of black– but enough that Gladio can make out the familiar curves in the distance once again. He’s been busy thinking about it. About the new weight in his pack, about how to keep slowing their pace so Ignis and Prompto don’t pass out. About where they should go after this, because he knows all the names of the places up ahead, and each one still feels like a punch in the gut no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. 

And then, suddenly: the familiar, comforting sound of Ignis’ footsteps behind him stop.

He and Prompto make a brief second of eye contact —you hear him? No?— and both turn around in unison, hands going for their weapons. 

But at the sight that greets them, Gladio pauses, confused. 

Ignis isn’t facing towards either of them; he’s pointed southwest, off the road and into the wilderness. Gladio knows Ignis isn’t seeing anything, but with the way he’s so still, as if lost in some puzzle, he can’t help but feel there’s something he’s looking for.

“Iggy?” Gladio calls. His voice is rough and he coughs to clear it; as he does, he realizes this is the first time he’s spoken in a while. “Everything okay?”

Slowly, Ignis tilts his head towards them, signaling he’s attentive. Gladio doesn’t have anything else to say, though. He and Prompto glance at each other, then make their way back down the road, coming to stand on either side of him.

Ignis doesn’t say anything—just keeps gazing ahead. Carefully, Gladio asks, “What’s up?”

There’s a pause. Ignis looks contemplative as he adjusts the visor covering his eyes.

“The thought crossed my mind…” He trails off, still looking, sightless, into the wild. Gladio follows his gaze, but doesn’t notice anything different, just more grey. 

“Are you okay?” Prompto is peering out into the landscape too. “Did you hear something?”

Ignis shakes his head. The back of his neck is covered in goosebumps, Gladio realizes distantly; as if he’s somehow cold despite the growing heat brought by the sun and the damn long sleeved shirts he never seems to want to take off. 

For a second, Gladio thinks they aren’t going to get anything else. 

Then, slowly, Ignis lets out a breath. 

“I…” he swallows, not looking away from the parched land. His fingers trace along the hilt of his favorite dagger, the one Gladio gave him when he was twenty-one. It’s a nervous habit, like those stupid glitter pens, and Gladio bites his tongue and waits. It ain’t one of his skills. Not by a long shot. But with Ignis barely speaking back in Insomnia, even a slim glimpse into his thinking required patience. When it comes to Ignis or Prompto, he’ll wait forever if he has to. 

Prompto must sense it too; he stays quiet, attention unwavering on Ignis. When Ignis speaks again, it’s soft. 

“I’m tired of the road.”

The words run through Gladio like a current. Me too his mind screams. Gods, he’s tired. Of the people, of seeing old landmarks destroyed, of reliving their first trip but a thousand times slower on foot.  

“Yeah,” he agrees, and clears his throat. Small admissions of truth. A glance at Prompto shows him nodding, too.

“Kinda sucks,” he inserts shyly, like he’s afraid they’re going to gasp in horror and reprimand him for the words, but all they do is make Gladio half-laugh, half-snort. Yeah. Yeah, it does kind of, really suck. 

Ignis hums his agreement. “Indeed.” 

Slowly, Gladio lets their shoulders brush. Ignis doesn’t flinch away. “Got something else in mind?” 

After another pause, Ignis inclines his head to the wilderness. “We should head this way.”

Gladio looks back out at the desolate countryside, then to the torn-up concrete and asphalt they’ve been progressing down. At Prompto, who looks so painfully hopeful that Gladio’s breath leaves his body in one fell swoop, like it was punched out of him. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Ignis confirms, and takes a step forward.

Gladio looks at Prompto, who looks at him. There’s stupid grins spreading across both of their faces—because it’s so like Ignis, to make a decision and act on it the next second. 

They follow.