Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Cornerstone (cor·ner·stone /ˈkôrnərˌstōn)
Latin: primarii lapidis, noun
1. an indispensable and fundamental basis
2. a foundation stone upon which all others are laid

The first day of their new world is the most beautiful thing Gladio has ever seen. 

It’s also one of the worst moments of his life. 

First in line, and if not first then second—right behind the way the air itself had gone quiet that day in Galdin Quay, standing in that damn hotel room with the paper held tightly in Ignis’ hands. It’d been dawn; Gladio remembers that, how the light had painted Ignis’ pale skin in muted blues and pinks, the smell of salt fresh on his skin from the ocean. He remembers how Ignis had turned to him when he came in, too —fresh off a run and then a shower, wondering what was for breakfast — and how the moment their eyes met, everything had gone cold. 

“Gladio,” he had said, and Gladio’s heart had felt like it was punched out into nothing.

Because he knew that tone. He’d heard it once before: when they were kids, shaking at a bench outside a hospital waiting room. A new word, marilith, floating between them. 

Never since. Not once. And suddenly, 

“Gladio.”

He remembers the way Ignis had swallowed, how his eyes had gone to the paper again, like he’d somehow misread — Ignis, the smartest man Gladio ever knew, the one who didn’t need to double check but always did so anyways. 

How he’d drawn in a breath and murmured, almost hoarse: “Insomnia. It has… they are saying…” 

And Gladio’s hearing had turned to static. 

Now, he stands on the citadel steps, sunlight bleeding into his face for the first time in ten years. He feels the swell of the same feeling beneath his ribcage, in his ears, the way it rises up and claws at him. He’d forgotten what it was like, in everything— just like he’d forgotten the damn sun, and how stupidly warm it is, and bright. 

“No. No, no, no.” 

Prompto is sobbing. He’s crying harder than Gladio’s ever seen him cry, fingers pressing down onto his bruised and swollen wrist like he can’t even feel it. 

“Please,” he’s choking out, over and over. Sometime between Ifrit and now, he’s curled into himself like an abused animal. “Please. Not him. Not him.”  

Around them, Glaives are shouting, people yelling and clapping each other on the back as the sky stretches out in afternoon blues. A brilliant, shocking, stunning blue– the first real blue he’s seen since the sky went black, since the sea turned dark and oily. 

The static is back again. All those years ago: Insomnia has fallen, Gladio. The King… he is dead. 

How are we gonna tell them? 

I… am not sure. Noct—  

Ignis’ voice had dipped on the name; it always did, when he was talking about Noctis. Fondness and affection and protection all in one, and now Noct is— Noct is—

And Ignis—  

Gladio looks at Ignis, who is sitting on the steps below the broken throne, still as a statue. His hands are still bloody from where they’d had to drag him off the marble, heft him away from where he was clambering at swords stabbed deep into stone as he searched for a body that wasn’t there. He’s quiet now, not gasping like he was before, gazing out at nothing with his scarred face and unseeing eyes. 

Frozen. Like he’s not alive at all. 

Daylight screams in the sky. Prompto is starting to turn pink already. The Glaives are crowding closer now, wiping their brows and cheering as the sun blinds them all in bright white, burns and scrapes and blood caked over all of them like displaced mud as celebration sweeps the city and people run into the wash of light, a roaring cry: 

“It’s over! It’s done!” 

And for some reason, the only thing Gladio’s eyes can focus on is this: Ignis, motionless and silent among all of it, sitting in the one patch of shadow that’s left. 

When Gladio was eighteen, Ignis tried to get him to fill in a planner. 

It wasn’t the first attempt– Gladio doesn’t know what Ignis was like as a baby, but as far as he’s concerned, he was just born a bit on the meticulous side of things.

To be fair, it was probably hard not to be, when he was who he was, and Gladio was the same: born to play a part, carefully taught and selected so that by the time they even knew they had a reason for it all it’d become ingrained, like a second nature. 

But Ignis always made it look so easy. 

“A purpose,” he used to call it. Before everything, when Noct would get snippy about duty and obligation. Fifteen, probably, because Noctis was a pain in the damn ass at fifteen. “If you’re going to use any word, I’d prefer that, Highness.”

That always shut him up fast; Noctis never knew what to say, when Ignis popped that kind of blind devotion out of nowhere like it was nothing. 

But then again– neither did Gladio.

It fit, though. A purpose. Ignis always had a way with words.

Even when they were kids, he was like that. Hell, Gladio remembers meeting him when he was– what all of seven? Or, shit, was it earlier, later– six, eight? He can’t keep track, not when it feels like he opened his eyes and Ignis was just there. But they were young; not so young that he didn’t know how to hold a shield but young enough that he didn’t really know who he was, either. 

But he’d liked it, their friendship. It was comfortable, two kids sitting with each other in the citadel library when his dad and the King had their meetings, tentative hellos that bled into familiarity over time. 

And then, at eighteen:

“Ugh. Nope, alright, I’m done! Too many colors, Iggy, I can’t keep track.”

Ignis hadn’t even looked up from his own planner. “Nonsense.”

“I mean it,” Gladio had insisted, dropping the glitter pen he was holding. Neon pink, silver sparkles, the only one Ignis hadn’t immediately protested him touching. “C’mon, you know I’m not smart enough for this stuff.”

That had made Ignis look up. 

Even back then, his eyes had held a sharpness to them. Startling green, and intense, like they were always seeing five steps ahead. Unafraid, they’d almost declared. Another thing that he’d had from the moment they met; like somehow he understood exactly why he was where he was, the meaning of everything. 

(Gladio knows now, of course, that he had. Ignis’ everything was a name, spelled with six letters. 

And he never, not once, faltered from it.) 

“You’re plenty smart,” Ignis had countered then, and Gladio had felt something hot and pleased go through him, tucked among the books at the public library this time, with Ignis’ soft brown hair and glasses. Because Ignis was the smartest person he knew, and somehow, he never made Gladio feel stupid. “It is all about practice, and planning.”

Gladio hadn’t wanted any of it. “Whatever.” He’d jabbed at Ignis’ planner. “This is boring. What’s all the orange for?”

A hum; already back to his work, three different books spread on the rickety wood table between them, and Gladio had huffed. Ignis was always doing that– five different tasks at once, surrounded by a rainbow array of pens. 

“Iggy. Hey! Orange?”

“Orange is for meetings,” Ignis had said distantly, penciling in a once-free space with a furrow in his brows. Black, which Gladio knew meant Noctis, and what took up all of his mornings and evenings. “Light, if they fall within the general population; darker, if they’re with members of the assembly.” 

Gross. “Gray?”

“Gray is for lessons.”

“Oh.” Gladio had squinted at the tiny sliver of non-orange, non-black, non-grey color deep into the night, all the way at the bottom of the planner. Pointed, in case it was too small for Ignis to see, too. “And purple?”

Ignis had waited to reply on that, half-distracted between Gladio and whatever new area he was blocking in with sparkling silver. His fingers had rubbed the base of his pen–a nervous tick, Gladio had learned, just like he’d learned that Ignis was shy at first but wicked clever once you got to know him. That he liked puns, and Ebony, and early morning runs. That maybe he was quiet and standoffish and intensely analytical not because he thought he was better than others, but because he carried something on his shoulders, the same thing that made Gladio lay awake some nights with a quiet wonder that out of all the people in the world, it was him that the universe picked for this.

But in that moment, all he’d gotten was an, “Hm?”

“The purple, what’s the purple color for?”

“Oh.” Ignis had paused then, glancing at the space on his agenda. He’d always talked so formally, like someone fifty years his senior. It used to make Gladio laugh, until realized that’s just how Ignis was. “Breaks, when I have time.”

Gladio had stared, and stared, and stared. Ignis had gazed back, a steadily growing confusion. 

Then: “When do you eat?”

Ignis had blinked, and Gladio had seen it: surprise and amusement and a little bit of flustered embarrassment all in one, so carefully controlled and quickly hidden that he might as well never have glimpsed it at all. 

But he had. 

“Not everyone consumes the daily intake of a behemoth,” Ignis had countered playfully, and when Gladio had rolled his eyes and given him a look, he’d sniffed and added, “I find the time.” 

Gladio had eyed the planner. “Oh yeah? When, because it looks like most of your time is babysitting.”

A cool, unimpressed gaze from Ignis. “I’d hardly equate my duties to such a thing, thank you.”

“Sure,” Gladio had said, drawing out the word. The bookshelf had creaked behind him when he’d leaned back; still staring at that damn planner. “You know, I think you’re the one person in the universe who’s busier than the King.”

“Oh come now.”

“No, I’m serious! Sucks they don’t pay you by the hour.”

That had earned a small smile at the corner of Ignis’ mouth. “A side effect of the job, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gladio had long ago learned that there was no point in arguing with Ignis about how spoiling Noctis rotten wasn’t part of his job , not unless they wanted to get into a real fight. Instead, he’d stretched his arms over his head, glancing around. It was impossible to be bored with Ignis, but Gladio wasn’t one meant for sitting still without something in his hands. “Hey, you have any book recs?”

“Hmm. Finished your series already?”

“Didn’t have a lot to do after training,” Gladio had shrugged, leaned back further. “Besides, ain’t like there was much to get through. Only had three of them, author is waiting on the fourth.”

Another hum; another block of orange, then a huge rectangle of black, tucked into the weekend afternoon. “I see. How were they? I recall you enjoying the first one.”

Gladio had grinned. Ignis was the only person he knew who could make a casual conversation about books and be truly interested in it. He didn’t ask the things other people did, the ones Gladio had long gotten used to bracing himself for: Aren’t you the shield? Why would you care about reading? 

“Not too bad. Didn’t like the ending of the last one, though.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Gladio had leaned forward; and he’d known, somehow, that even though Ignis was looking back at his planner, he was paying attention. That was another thing about Ignis– maybe he was always multitasking, yeah, but when you were with him, he was present. “Main character just straight up gets sucked into the ocean. And then instead of getting someone else to fix it, love interest throws herself overboard too, like somehow that’ll help.”

“Unprepared?”

“Unprepared!” 

Ignis had tut, disapproving.  “Well now, that’s just foolish.”

“Right?” Gladio had thrown his hands in the air, all the annoyance coming back. “At least bring a damn potion, or a life jacket.”

“Or perhaps a brain cell.” When Gladio laughed, surprised, Ignis had looked back up, eyes bright and playful. “Evidently not present in that moment. Miss Olivia will need a tad more planning, I think, should she want to survive to book four.”

And Gladio– Gladio had felt that same skip of his heart again. Because there Ignis was, dropping the name of a character from a book that he hadn’t read, one that he had somehow known from the one time Gladio had said it. His friend, who had a hundred council members’ names floating in his brain on hand in case he ran into them, and literally zero spare seconds in his day, and for some reason he’d taken time to remember that. 

Not for the first time, Gladio had wondered. Felt his throat tighten slightly, his palms start to sweat. 

“Hey,” he’d said into the quiet, because Ignis had already looked back down again. Not at his planner, this time, but some stray pieces of paper with little shapes across the sides, like a children’s coloring book. Recipes, probably, because Noctis was pickier than a five year old with a phobia of broccoli, and Ignis was a damn genius at hiding actual nutrients in his food. “Iggy.”

“Hmm?”

Gladio’s heart had pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat. “I was wondering– when you next have the time…do you want–”

“Specs?”

Gladio had jumped so hard he’d almost knocked over the bookshelf.

“Highness,” Ignis had said, a small sliver of surprise on his face as he stood, and Gladio had turned just in time to see Noctis walking towards them, a very nervous, very awkward Prompto Argentum behind him.

Well, shit. 

“Hey,” Noctis’ had paused when he got to their table, eyebrows raising. “What are you d–wait, what’s all this?”

Ignis had already started shuffling the papers, careful fingers aligning each sheet with an uncanny precision. 

“Simply catching up on things,” he’d said easily, the recipe for catoblepas meatballs with spinach in the sauce magically disappearing from view like a trick of the hand, and Gladio had noted the way his eyes had flicked over the scene: Noctis, to Prompto, back to Noctis. 

Always back to Noctis, no matter what, like an orbit. 

(Checking for the Crownsguard escorts in common clothes as he did, too, like Gladio had– back corner, near the reception, and he’d felt the way the tension had eased from Ignis’ shoulders at that. Same as his, if he was being honest.  

There were things you got used to looking for, worrying about, when you were them.) 

“Someone’s been planning out their day so they can keep the princess happy,” Gladio had added before Noctis could reply, standing as well just in case. It’d earned him two glares for his efforts, one significantly more petulant than the other. 

“Gladio, really.”

“Not a princess,” Noctis had mumbled at the same time, glancing at Prompto with red already touching his cheeks. 

Prompto, for his part, had looked like he was ready to try and hide behind the nearest bookshelf if any of them so much as breathed wrong. Ignis had vetted him about fifty thousand times the instant Noctis started talking about him for real; and even then, after approval and Ignis very calmly explaining that yes , he had passed the background checks to go to Noctis’ apartment and no, he was not going to have to sign some type of waiver, kid had still been a nervous wreck that first year of friendship. 

That was Prompto back then, though. Scuttling around with huge eyes, stammering like he was ready for them to declare him an enemy of the state and stick him in a jail cell for one wrong move. 

Knowing what Gladio does now, it makes a bit more sense. Back then he hadn’t been the smartest, though.

(Ain’t now, either. But.)

“Look like a princess to me,” Gladio had quipped back, and, when Noctis had scowled, grinned at him, lunging out to get him in a headlock. Instantly, Noctis was struggling for control. “What, want to prove me wrong? Gonna need to work harder on your drills if you wanna stand a chance–”

“Shut up, I already did your stupid workout this morning–”

“Oh yeah? Couldn’t tell, with your spindly little stick arms–”

“Boys,” Ignis had interrupted pleasantly, which was always how you knew you were about to be in big trouble if you didn’t snap your mouth shut and listen , “must I remind you this is a public library?” 

That’d shut them up. A glance around showed a very unhappy librarian glaring in their direction; Gladio winced, letting Noctis go. 

“Sorry, Iggy.” 

Noctis had crossed his arms, looking down. “Yeah. Sorry, I guess.”

“My bad!!” Prompto had added quickly, even though he hadn’t so much as squeaked during the whole thing. Ignis had just shaken his head, fondness in the motion. When it came to Noctis, Gladio was pretty sure Ignis would forgive anything. 

(Sometimes he wondered if he should feel jealous about that. But he never did, even back then. He’d just felt… lucky, to realize he was treated the same. 

And a bit annoyed. Noctis needed some tough love once in a damn while.)

“Whoa, are those glitter pens?” 

Everyone had looked at Prompto. At some point during the scuffle, he’d scooted away from Noctis (good self preservation instincts, Gladio could give him that); his eyes were on the pens still laid neatly on the table instead, openly interested. 

When he’d noticed Ignis and Gladio staring at him, he’d instantly gone paler. 

“I mean– uh, hi, um, sorry for interrupting your very important planning time Advisor Ignis and Shield Gladio–”

Gladio had snorted. This kid. 

“You nerd,” Noctis had inserted, elbowing Prompto lightly, and Prompto had gone a bright pink. “You’ve known us for months. Just call them by their names.”

“But–”

“Just Ignis is fine,” Ignis had interrupted smoothly, because by then they’d both learned that Prompto spiraled faster than a Glaive going freefall. Prompto had instantly shut his mouth. It’d made Gladio grin; maybe Prompto was afraid of him, but he was terrified of Ignis those early days. “And yes, they are glitter pens. A gift, for my seventeenth.”

“O-Oh.”

“A good one too,” Gladio had grunted, and, at Prompto’s curious look, smirked. “My sister has badass taste.”

A perk of interest; Prompto had always been curious. “You have a sister?”

“The de facto nail painter, and provider of glitter pens,” Ignis had said warmly, the kind of warmth that was reserved for exactly three specific people before Prompto snuck into their lives and became the fourth. “Dear Gladio here is wearing his favorite color today, isn’t he?”

Gladio had snorted, flipping him off. “Fuck off.” 

“With all due respect: no.”

That got an actual laugh this time. Behind them, Prompto had blinked rapidly, his gaze going to Gladio’s nails. With a sigh, Gladio had held them up: bright pink, a bit chipped at the edges from his workout that morning.

“She demanded it,” he’d said, ready to punch the snot out of him if he implied anything about manliness, and Prompto’s eyes had gone wide. 

“Wow,” he’d breathed; twitched, like he wanted to get closer to look but thought Gladio might snap his neck if he did. Then, so genuine that even Gladio was taken aback, “Those are really good.” 

“Hell yeah they are, I told you.” 

“For real though. That’s like, artistry.” 

From where he’d been stacking his books, Ignis’ lips had twitched up. Next to Prompto, Noct was smiling. 

“I bet she’d do yours,” he’d offered, and Prompto had blinked again, startling.

“What– oh, no, I couldn’t–”

“You should. She has quite the knack for it,” Ignis had agreed, poker face back on as the last of the books slipped into his bag. “I prefer the violet, myself.”

Gladio can still remember the look on Prompto’s face: like someone had just told him the King was actually a chipmunk. Completely, totally gobsmacked. 

And Noctis? Noctis had laughed.

Quiet, but there, and it was like a fucking miracle those days, getting him to loosen up. The noise had done something to Gladio’s stomach, twisted it up in a tangle; not bad, but good. It’d take a trip by car and ten years of darkness before he understood it. 

“Regardless,” Ignis had continued, and straightened up. His eyes were on Noctis again; maybe Gladio hadn’t been the only one noticing the smile, because Ignis’ gaze had softened into something honey-touched. “Not to toe away from the conversation–”

Gladio had groaned. “Oh Six–”

“Specs–”

Another look of absolute shock from Prompto–

“–But I have to inquire as to why you’re here,” Ignis had finished, looking completely unbothered. But Gladio had known he was smug all the same; bastard. “I was told you planned to go to the arcade.” 

“We were, but.” Noctis had shrugged, jerking his thumb towards Prompto. “Prom needed to get something from here first.”

“Ah. That certainly explains how you got in. I assume you have a library card, Prompto?”

Prompto had blushed again, shifting under the attention. “O-Oh, yeah. My mom got it for me when I was a kid, sometimes I hang out here after school so I don’t have to– er, I mean, I just like books, you know? They’re… cool, and stuff.”

As quick as he’d started, he’d trailed off, redder by the second. Next to him, Noct had snorted and rolled his eyes. But Ignis had tilted his head at him, searching, and that was the first time Gladio ever saw it: a small string of fond amusement, directed at a mess of floppy blonde hair. 

The first, but not the last. 

(Gladdy? Hello? Anyone in there?)

“Indeed,” Ignis had said after a moment, and clicked the clasp on his bag. Clean, and precise, and so Ignis. “Well, then. Perhaps I can assist; I know the sections here well, if I do say so myself.”

At that, even Noctis had looked surprised. “Thought you used the citadel library.”

“I do. Public libraries offer a more diverse selection of subjects, however.” 

In other words: Yes, well, I have to scour every possible library in existence for recipes to feed your sorry ass so you don’t shrivel up and die of scurvy, because apparently asking you to eat a single food item not firmly centered in carbohydrates or meat is too much to ask. Highness. 

Not that Ignis would ever think that. He’d never seen someone so pleased to be overworked and underappreciated. 

(Gladdddyyyyyyyyy, helloooooooo–)

Then again, he’d thought, as Ignis had taken Prompto by a firm proverbial grip, already asking him pointed questions (“Ah, so you’re a runner. Amata has quite a firm grasp on those theories, over here–” “Er–alright, but you don’t have to, I mean, you must be busy–” “Nonsense. Gladio will know more of course, but for now this might do–”) maybe he was. 

Appreciated, that is. 

Because he saw the way Noctis looked at Ignis sometimes, when Ignis was doing things for him, back turned. So much trust. Blind in it, almost, and Gladio could never forget the day Noct got back from Tenebrae, shaking and scared. How out of everyone he’d reached for, it was Ignis; Ignis, with wide eyes and open arms already waiting for him. 

Remembered…Remembers–

(Gladdy, I’m serious...)

“Gladio,” Ignis calls, and Gladio blinks, yanked back into focus. What was he thinking, again? 

“Yeah?”

“Prompto has expressed interest in the matters of romance novels,” Ignis says, and his eyes are so green. Green, and alive, and Prompto is behind him, looking like a lobster, mouth going a mile a minute as he scrambles to explain. Noctis is already over at a different shelf —comics, probably— and Gladio stares at them all, an odd pounding in his head. “Come over here and help, would you?”

(Hey, it’s really time to w–)

“Right,” he says, and blinks. His vision feels weird. Next to him, a bookshelf creaks, and he shakes his head. What’s up with him? “Coming.”

He starts to step forward. There’s something heavy in his chest, but he knows what happens next. He’ll show Prompto the books, and then Prompto will mention running, and it’ll be Ignis who jokes, “Ah, another five AM soul. Perhaps you and Gladio should start a club.”

Noctis will groan, and Prompto will stumble out a hasty excuse that won’t stop Gladio from bullying him into doing it anyways, and it’ll be–

Fine. 

( C’mon, you’re freaking me out– )

Fine, here in this moment, heart feeling full: Ignis’ gaze on him, Prompto to his left, and Noctis nearby. Gladio a shield between the world and all of them, because that’s who he is. Unmovable, permanent, unfailing. 

The four of them, like it’s supposed to be. It–

The bookshelf starts to shake. Gladio smells smoke; sees a faint gray come over the room. He grabs onto Ignis, and Ignis’ head turns, a question on his lips. Not in his eyes, because his eyes aren’t there, just– blobs of scars, and red. 

“Gladio?” he says, and it’s not his voice, someone else’s, like it’s coming through water. Gladio jerks back in alarm, whirls around, sees Prompto– a smear of blood on his face, bruises across his cheeks and arms. 

“What’s wrong, big guy?” he asks, and it sounds like screaming, a wrecked caw of a crow. Gladio stumbles; swings towards the other aisle, the tightness in his chest swelling so hard he chokes on it. 

Painful this time, not good, because Noctis– 

Noctis is gone. He’s gone, he’s missing, and–

“Hellooooo, earth to Gladdy!”

Gladio opens his eyes with a  jolt.

The world comes back in pieces: the cold floor below him, leaching through the thin blanket against his back; the cracked ceiling, with an off-green stain in the corner that screams mold; the sticky heat in the air, half-clogged with dust. 

And Iris’ face above him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Finally! Thought you’d sleep through everything,” she tells him, openly relieved, and it takes Gladio a second to reorient himself. “You alright?”

Gladio sucks in a breath, ragged in his lungs. Her hand is on his arm, fingers calloused and warm; she helps him as he props himself onto his elbow, staring at the room around him. 

It sinks in like a boulder. Right. He’s not eighteen in a library. 

He’s thirty-three, in what’s left.

“Yeah,” he croaks, and glances around at the half-destroyed flat they’ve been calling home for the past three weeks. 

Here in the capital, actual livable housing is hard to come buy; people are having to pack into whatever they can as refugees flood into the city like a tsunami, but it’s just the four of them here in this long-abandoned apartment, a few minutes walk away from where Cor and Monica are holed up as they all try to lump the city into some sort of functional unit again. Compared to the places’ Gladio has seen as they’ve picked through the rubble, it’s not half bad. There’s a sink, and two separate rooms with enough blankets to technically count as beds, and even some semblance of a kitchen—minus the actual gas to make it work. 

Perks of being saviors of the world, he supposes. 

It must be morning: there’s the tilt of sunlight through the cracked window, and Iris’ face is freshly washed, half-pink from cold water. Her gaze is expectant. Waiting. 

“You good?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, and runs a hand over his face, feels how it catches on his dry skin, his mouth, the stubble across his jaw. Scrubs at his eyes, relieved to find them dry. “Sorry, how— how long was I out?”

“A solid ten,” she tells him, and Gladio jerks up to a full sit. 

“You serious?!” 

He hasn’t slept ten hours since— he doesn’t even know. 

“You needed it,” Iris says gently, and sits back on her heels when he scoffs and starts to rise to his feet. “Relax! You’ve got time before the meeting.”

Ugh. Gladio rubs his face again, harder. Of course. How’d he forget? 

“What’s it about, again?”

Iris shrugs. “No idea, probably just updates? You’re the one with connections.” 

“Right.” It’s strange to think about, sometimes, that he’s more than just muscle right now. He forces himself onto his feet, those same muscles aching in protest. “Well, consider me stumped then.”

Iris laughs, standing up and following him as he staggers over to the sink. She winces sympathetically when he hisses at the cold water; no heating, not yet. He can’t help but be grateful for it though— it jerks him another step back into focus, a snap of chill that chases away the leftover fog of… whatever that was. 

Ain’t no time to be thinking about anything but the present. 

A glance at Prompto’s and Ignis’ shared room shows the door is still closed, but it’s almost deathly silent apart from the two of them. Iris follows his gaze and sighs. 

“Iggy already took off,” she supplies, stretching her arms above her head. It’s still weird, sometimes, to look at her; she’s always been his little sister, but then ten years of darkness have made her only a head shorter than him, arms and back corded with muscle. “Said he didn’t want to wake you.”

Gladio grumbles. “What time?”

“I don’t know– four? I heard him leave.”

The words make him scowl. Ignis got back late last night, and now he’s up before dawn? 

“Should have woken me up.” Six knows out of all the people here, it’s not him who should be sleeping in. 

Iris smacks him on the arm. “Hey, a little bit extra never hurts.” When he rolls his eyes, she hip checks him, grinning when he checks her back—gently, because she’s still his sister, and it came close, a few times over the years. “Besides, this gal keeps her promises, and Iggy would know.”

She’s not wrong on that. Ten years have changed a lot of things, but Ignis’ whip-sharp perception for sniffing out trouble isn’t one of them.

“Haven’t seen blondie, though,” Iris continues, and Gladio frowns. That’s not like Prompto; kid used to be up at the crack of dawn. 

He straightens up from the sink, dripping wet down his neck; grunts a thanks as she tosses him one of the ripped washcloths they hung up to dry last night. “I’ll check on him.”

“Sure. Oh– Iggy left breakfast, by the way! Said it’s in the cooler.”

“Score.”

Iris laughs again, already starting to dig through her bag for her knives. It takes Gladio less than ten steps to cross over to the closed door, the wood creaking under his weight; he raps on it, once, twice. 

“Oi, Prompto, meeting’s soon.”

There’s no reply. Gladio knocks again, harder this time. Nothing. Huh. 

“Sure he’s not gone?” he calls to Iris, and, when she shrugs at him, reaches for the handle. “Prompto?”

Slowly, he inches the door open. The room is dark, shadows curling quietly in the corners as the light from the main area slides across the floor, small particles of dust floating in the air like a thin mist. It’s been rearranged slightly since the last time Gladio saw it, when the four of them first got set up; the couch has been pushed to the side, covered with Prompto’s and Ignis’ bags, and there are piles of blankets on opposite sides of the room, one for each of them. 

And there, sitting at the farthest pile and still as a statue, is Prompto. 

“Hey,” Gladio says, but Prompto doesn’t move. He’s looking down at something; his phone, Gladio realizes, noticing the weak light illuminating his face. Louder: “Prompto.”

Prompto jumps like he’s just been electrocuted. 

“Huh?!” he yelps, and jerks to look at him, eyes huge. He looks like shit, dark shadows across his face; there’s a still-healing scab from the top of his forehead to his cheek, courtesy of their fight with Ifrit. Gladio’s stomach dips down to his toes when he sees his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. 

Cautiously, he opens the door further. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Prompto says instantly, so fast the words almost blend together. He shoves his phone under the blankets, blinks a few times. His voice is hoarse. “Sorry, I didn’t– what’s up?”

“Almost nine.”

More blinking. Then a jolt. 

“Shit, the meeting,” Prompto breathes, and when Gladio nods, scrambles up, nearly tripping over himself. His phone slides off the blankets and onto the floor, and he darts for it. “Sorry, sorry, I’m coming! Iggy–”

“Already left.”

“Oh, shit, yeah, alright, just give me a second–”

He hops over to the dresser, frantically sorting through his clothes. Gladio turns to go; as he does, he catches sight of the familiar shine of a camera lens, tucked among all the other bags on the couch. He doesn’t know what about it catches his eye, makes him pause, but he does, squinting at it.

Hold up. 

“Whoa,” he says, and Prompto spins to face him, shirt halfway off his head. Gladio points at the camera; the huge crack right along the glass lens, spreading down to the plastic below. “What happened?”

Prompto follows his gaze; jolts, again.

“Oh!” he breathes, and rushes over to it. Before Gladio can get another look, it’s buried under more bags, a spare blanket; when Prompto turns around, he’s fidgety. “Nothing! Or, well, not nothing, but it– uh, broke. During… y’know.”

He trails off, shifting. Fire flashes in Gladio’s mind, Ifrit screaming in the night sky; thousands of daemons, pouring onto the steps in endless waves. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“Yeah.” Prompto clears his throat. “But! It’s fine, no biggie! Don’t need it, anyways, haa, um– sorry, do you mind, I kinda wanna put on some pants…”

There’s something twisty and heavy in Gladio’s gut. He almost steps in, says, why didn’t you say anything? or you know, I bet we could find a way to fix it–

No. He forces the urge aside. 

“Sure,” he agrees, and retreats. 

Iris has grabbed her portion of breakfast when he returns to their half-kitchen, toast hanging out of her mouth as she ties the laces on her shoes. She looks up when the floorboard squeaks, eyebrows raised. 

“He okay?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Gladio huffs and her, and she makes a face at him. Her next chew is open-mouthed and disgusting. “Oh, fuck off, Miss Manners.”

“Says the guy who had to be taught about cloth napkins.”

“Shut up.”

Iris grins at him, this time without mashed-up bread. There’s a clatter in the room behind them –Prompto tripping over something, probably, or digging through the bags– and he sees her eyes flick to it, expression sobering. “Why the holdup?”

“Slept in,” Gladio lies. He just– can’t. Not right now. 

Iris is watching him, oddly intent.

“Alright,” she says after a moment, and Gladio feels his shoulders loosen. He turns around, rooting in the makeshift cooler that they’re using as a fridge. There’s bread, a few pieces of chilled something that’s probably whatever magic Ignis was able to work with using the canned meat they found during their supply mission two days ago. 

He isn’t hungry. He grabs both anyways. 

“I heard Lestallum is starting to expand again,” Iris says as he sits down, and Gladio grunts, shoving a piece of the mystery meat into his mouth. It’s not half-bad. “Aranea’s taking over while Cor deals with shit here.” 

There’s a bit of wistfulness in her voice. Gladio huffs. “Yeah? You thinking of heading back to HQ?”

“Maybe,” she says, with a tone of voice that means oh hell yeah, and at Gladio’s look, grins. “What can I say? Us Amicitias don’t stay still, do we?”

Ain’t that the truth. 

“If you go, let Iggy know so he can get Sania on board with the vegetable thing he’s doing,” he tells her, because maybe he still thinks of her as fifteen but she’s not. If she wants to hunt, then she will; and she’s damn good at it, too. Saved his ass plenty of times over the years, after he and Ignis and Prompto–

Well, whatever. It’s in the past. 

Besides, it’s not like the daemons are still around. Whatever magic brought the light back melted them all into puddles of inky black goo; Gladio saw it with his own eyes, that day on the steps. If she’s gonna be hunting, it’ll be beasts or bandits, not the horrors they used to deal with.

She smiles at him, pleased. “Will do. Hey, speaking of: don’t let Iggy work himself ragged today, yeah?” Gladio feels himself tense, but she continues, “If he doesn’t start saying no to every person who asks him for something, he’s gonna…”

She trails off. 

“Gonna what?” Gladio makes himself say. Iris sighs. 

“I don’t know, faint? Or make Prompto pass out, poor guy can’t keep up with him at this rate.”

There’s something bitter and sour in Gladio’s mouth. It doesn’t, he tells himself, taste like guilt. “Sure.”

Iris is watching him, a bit too intent. There’s a pause, and then she starts, “Hey, Gladdy?”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking… maybe you–”

Prompto bursts out of his room in a flurry of limbs. 

“Sorry, sorry!” he gasps, hopping over to the sink with one shoe still half on his foot. His hair has been wrangled into something approaching normalcy; his eyes look better too, even if the shadows under them are still dark as bruises. Gladio makes himself look away. “I’m almost ready!”

“Whoa there, partner,” Iris teases, as he yanks on the sink nozzle and starts splashing water haphazardly on his face. “We got time. Lucky for you, not all of us slept in.”

“Sorry!”

“Breakfast in the cooler,” Gladio tells him as he straightens up, but Prompto just wipes his face with the now half-clean washcloth, shaking the water out of his hair.

“I’m good!”

Next to him, Iris shifts slightly. Prompto is busy trying to wring out the washcloth; Gladio can see the faint trace of his ribs beneath his shirt. 

He swallows. Doesn’t say anything.

They all jump when Iris’ phone starts to ring. Ba-da-du-duuuuu duuuu-du-du–

Iris reaches for it instantly. “Hey,” she says, and stands, scooting away from the table to the other side of the room for some semblance of privacy. Gladio can hear a muffled voice on the other end, female; he tears his attention away from her and back to Prompto as Iris nods, the soft sound of conversation starting up. 

Prompto isn’t looking at him. He’s fiddling with the band on his wrist, staring distantly at the muted light from the window; if he has his phone on him, Gladio can’t see it. 

Silence hangs between them. Gladio looks down at his feet. 

They don’t speak. 

“Right,” Iris says a few minutes later, as the voice on the other end fizzles out and she snaps her phone shut. Prompto jumps again, turning to face her; she smiles at the both of them, grabbing her bag. “Sorry boys, but I’ve got to skip out on this one. Duty calls!”

“There a problem?” Gladio asks, tension curling in his back, and she shakes her head.

“Dustin’s scouts think they’ve spotted some daggerquills up north of Cid’s place. They need some folks to try and trap them without hurting ‘em.” 

Holy– “Thought they were extinct?”

She grins. “Apparently not!”

Well, damn. Gladio can feel himself smiling; he glances at Prompto, ready for some excitement. He’d loved daggerquill soup–if there’s a chance that the population still exists, that means one day, Ignis might be able to make it again for him. 

But Prompto is back to staring out the window, silent. 

So it’s Gladio who says, “Hell yeah.” 

Iris is looking at him again; him, and then Prompto, something thoughtful in her eyes.

“Prompto?” she says, and Prompto blinks, attention jerking away from the window to her. Her smile is soft; like she was at fifteen, Gladio thinks, before the world tore itself apart. “I know you two have been working yourselves pretty hard. I could call Cor if you want, let him know you need a break day.”

Despite the kindness in the words, Prompto tenses up.

“No, no, I’m good!” he says quickly, and straightens from where he was leaning against the counter. He’s not looking at Gladio. “Just waking up still, haa.”

“You sure? You’re looking a bit pale.”

Prompto’s fidgeting is off the charts. “Yeah, yeah, no, I’m peachy!” He starts to back up; Gladio is reminded of that moment on the steps, the way he’d curled into himself. “Actually, you know what– I’ll wait for you two outside. Just need some fresh air, you know, uh, but, have fun–”

He almost flees from the room.

Gladio has to resist the urge to run his hand over his face. Shit.

Iris lays a hand on his arm.

“Gladdy?” she prompts, and the tone of it, not the actual word, makes him look up. She’s watching him; there’s a twist in her lip, right at the corner. For a second, he thinks she's going to ask him about Prompto, but instead she says, “You know that you could do that too, right? Take a breather?”

It’s his turn to tense. What? 

“No way, too much work.” When she frowns at him, he takes in the faint shadows under her eyes, pivots. “We’re all tired. If anyone’s gonna take some R&R, it should be Lestallum’s greatest hunter.”

The flattery doesn’t work. She narrows her eyes, unimpressed. “Riiight. If I do that, I’ll be letting you have all the fun.”

“What, you don’t want to miss out on one of Iggy’s famous financial lectures?”

She doesn’t laugh.  

“Gladdy,” she repeats, and Gladio swallows. The air feels tense, all of a sudden, like a string ready to snap. He can feel it in his muscles, in his jaw. “Look… I know we haven’t talked about it, but–are holding up okay?” 

Gladio’s entire body is tight. He pulls away from her arm. “Course I am.”

He’s holding up fine. The world is back, daylight is back. There’s nothing to not be okay over.

It takes Iris a moment to speak again. When she does, she sounds almost sad. “You sure?”

Gladio swallows. Forces his breath to stay even, doesn’t think about it, any of it. Outside, he’s hyperaware that Prompto is waiting, doing Six knows what. Ignis is no doubt running on an empty stomach and even emptier sleep schedule; what are his problems, compared to that shit?

When he reaches out to clap her on the shoulder, he makes sure his mouth is smiling. 

“You know it,” he promises, and leaves it at that. 

———

The walk to the meeting room is quiet. 

It’s weird, being near Prompto and not having him talk a mile a minute. He remembers those days before the trip, even during, where it felt impossible to shut him up for even a second. He probably should have found it annoying, but it was more endearing than anything; like a puppy being given a toy, but instead it was them throwing him topics and seeing how long he could talk.

“Look, I’m just saying that if we define soup as a liquid thing with other things in it, then cereal is definitely soup–”

Noct, laughing: “That’s bullshit–”

“It’s not! Iggy, back me up, come on!”

“I’m afraid he has a valid point, Highness. The technical definition leaves little room for confusion, particularly given that many recipes do ask for some type of cream…”

“Oh no you don’t. Don’t even get him started, blondie, you weren’t here for the grilled cheese conversation–”

Now, though, they make their way along the remnants of the destroyed city without speaking. It’s been like that, since– since it happened. Prompto, almost silent unless spoken to. 

Gladio doesn’t have a damn idea what to do about it. 

“So,” Prompto says a few minutes into walking. The remains of the citadel tower over them; Gladio almost jumps at the noise. He’d been in his own head, focused on the shadow cast by the morning sun. Prompto still isn’t looking at him; hasn’t since they parted with Iris, her arms hugging them both tight. “Daggerquills, huh? Pretty cool.”

His heart isn’t in it. Gladio grunts. “Yeah.”

More silence. Prompto fidgets with his wristband. Gladio clenches his fists. 

The door to the meeting room is open when they approach. It’s not unusual, given things; there’s been so much chaos that what remains of the Glaives are pretty much always going back and forth, zipping from place to place. He can hear voices bleeding through, echoing down the hallway:

“We’re missing five carts of cargo from Lestallum already…”

“I think if we shift the supply routes from the coast to more mainland, we might be able to–”

“Hey, pass the pens over, can’t write a damn thing with this one!”

It’s packed when they peek inside, a good two dozen people, most of them in classic hunter and Glaive attire— or what passes for it nowadays, at least. It takes him a second to spot Ignis among the crowd; he’s seated two spaces to the left of Monica, hands folded neatly in his lap as everyone talks around him. 

Prompto heads straight his way. After a moment of hesitation, Gladio follows. 

“Don’t think we have a chance if we take it head on,” Monica is saying to Ignis as they approach, Prompto nervously scooting between the bodies with quiet sorry, sorrys. Cor is next to her, glaring down at a map. “Could send out some climbers, maybe.” 

Ignis doesn’t say anything in response, just nods; his head is tilted in their direction, like he somehow knows they’ve arrived even among all the people. For a second, Gladio is sure he’s imagining it, but then he speaks up. 

“Prompto, Gladio.” 

Gladio’s chest does that— thing again. Unpleasant, and heavy, and he doesn’t even know why. It ain’t like Ignis’ voice is cold or rude, far from it; even after their fight five years ago, he’s done nothing but treat Gladio with respect and patience. 

If anything, it’s almost like it never happened in the first place. When they reconnected the night Noctis came back, there was nothing but fondness and sadness between them. 

But Gladio has known Ignis forever, and hearing him speak now just feels… empty, somehow. 

“Hey, Iggy,” Prompto says, and hesitates. The chairs on both sides of Ignis are empty— like people avoiding a mourner at a funeral, Gladio’s mind whispers, and he shoves the thought away, hard. “Um… is it okay if we, y’know—“

He motions to the seats, then starts to catch himself (blind), but Ignis has already inclined his head. 

“Of course.”

“Great,” Prompto says, and for the first time today, he sounds like he means it. He scrambles over, settling down in the chair farthest from Monica. Gladio is left with the one next to her, and he eases himself down too, looking over the room. 

“Thanks for breakfast,” he tells Iggy, because he doesn’t have a damn idea what else to greet him with. Ignis just nods again. He’s so still— no fidgeting, the opposite of Prompto. 

“It was no trouble.”

Five years ago, Gladio would have known what to say to that. Three weeks ago, he would have had the energy to try. 

“Cool,” he grunts instead, and glances away. 

“Here, I can take notes,” Prompto inserts quickly, already pulling out sheets of paper, the battered pen that Gladio has seen him cart around nowadays. He squints down at it, brows furrowed. “Uh, I think there’s still ink in this, one second…”

“It’s quite alright,” Ignis tells him, as Prompto scribbles erratically on the paper, trying to get the ink to flow. “No need to trouble yourself.” 

Prompto startles, turning to him. “No, it’s fine!” When Ignis opens his mouth, he plows on, “I could never focus in school unless I took notes anyways. Just tell me what’s important, and then later I can read it to you.”

His voice and eyes are so earnest that even Gladio feels his heart twist. He must not be the only one who notices; Ignis’ face softens, just slightly. 

“Very well, then,” he murmurs. Some life bleeds back into the words, and for a moment, Gladio can breathe. “It’s appreciated.”

For the first time all day, Prompto smiles. 

“Okay everyone, settle down, settle down.”

It says a lot about his time before and after the long dark that as soon as Cor speaks, everyone goes silent. A hush falls over the room as he straightens up from the map; Prompto snaps his mouth shut and holds his pen tighter. 

Ignis barely even moves.

“Got a lot on the agenda today, so let’s keep it quick,” Cor says, taking a slip of paper from Monica with a nod. He looks older, now; not that it’s surprising, exactly (Gladio found his first gray hair seven years ago, and he was only 26), but there’s something about The Immortal looking tired that makes just how much of a mess they’re in sink in fully. “First off, Lestallum is starting to see growth again. Need some folks down there to help coordinate.”

One of the new Glaives speaks up. “I can do it. Got family down there.”

Cor gives a curt nod. 

“Iris is heading that way too,” Gladio adds, sitting taller when he feels the room’s attention focus on him. Ignis’ head tilts his direction, just slightly. “Planning to meet up with HQ. She said Aranea might be helping out.”

“Well, that frees up some folks for trying to get electricity back around here, then.” Cor squints at his list, frowning. “Speaking of, we’re working on the folks who need some gas lines to their places.”

“Shelters, then private homes,” Monica inserts, and there’s a collective nod around the room. “Electricity will be up and running soon, and I know it's as hot as Ifrit’s backside right now, but we need to make sure the new families coming in have heat set up for winter, too.”

There’s a few laughs. Prompto is writing at breakneck speed, his tongue poking out between his teeth as he goes. Gladio can’t help the swell of affection that settles in his chest; dork. 

As Monica continues on, Ignis leans towards Gladio.

“Gladio,” he murmurs, and Gladio’s attention is yanked away from what Monica is saying so fast it’s like whiplash. He grunts, showing he’s listening; Ignis hesitates, then swallows. His fingers twitch. “I’d hate to trouble you, but if I may– could you perhaps convince your sister to bring along Dr. Yeager? She and I collected various samples–”

“Already on it,” Gladio reassures him. Ignis pauses, like he’s surprised, and Gladio clears his throat. “You talked about it, early on.”

Talked about it, and did it. Ignis that first year was everywhere: Lestallum, Altissa, the depths of Leide’s deserts, a one-man army of knowledge and action. 

(They all were, really. No time to nap when people were smears of red on asphalt.)

“When this is over, we’ll be happy we saved them,” Ignis had said in year two, hempen bags of tiny seeds spread out before him in the single room they’d all packed into in Lestallum. It’d been back when they all took on missions together, and he remembers what a pain in the ass that specific search was: they’d had to heave their way through the muck and gunk of a swamp for three days, fighting daemons as they went. All for a tiny little pepper plant, carefully dissected under Ignis’ steady hands. "Pass the knife, will you?"

"You got it, Iggy."

“Think one day they’ll grow again?” Prompto had asked, sitting cross-legged next to them. The room had been cold (long since run out of fuel for heating, by then), but Gladio can still recall the warmth of him, pressed side by side. 

And Ignis, predictable as always: “Of course. Noct wouldn’t allow otherwise.”

He was always like that. Even after everything, the crystal and the mess of darkness and screaming, he never once gave up. And something about it had made Gladio hope: the three of them there, their knees occasionally brushing and bumping together, trying to preserve what was left. 

“Well,” Gladio remembers saying, “maybe if he knows how damn annoying it was, it’ll get him to eat his vegetables.” 

Now, he realizes that Ignis’ attention is still on him, openly considering. When he speaks, his voice is soft. A bit more alive, again. 

“Thank you, Gladio. I’ll send her the details.”

The knot in Gladio’s chest unspools, just a little. He grins at him. “Anything for you, Iggy.”

He means for it to come out as a joke; it doesn’t. Ignis pauses. 

Fuck. 

“...issue of sunlight shock,” Cor is saying, and Gladio turns back to the conversation at hand before he can see whatever look is going to happen on Ignis’ face. Forces himself to focus. “Half the kids we’re finding have it, and it’s not going away anytime soon. It’s stopping us from helping some of them, they’re too scared to come out of hiding.”

There’s a murmur of concern across the room. A hunter raises her hand. “They don’t want to go outside?”

“They’ve never seen the sun before,” Monica points out, and the hunter frowns. 

Next to him, Prompto looks up. “So they’re– what, scared of it?”

Gladio blinks at him. It’s rare for Prompto to speak up at these things. 

“It’d be one hell of an adjustment to only know dark your whole world, and suddenly there’s this giant thing in the sky that burns you when you go out,” Cor says, tapping his finger on the wood of the table. Prompto shifts in his seat, the pen loosening in his grip.

“Huh. Like us during the long dark, but the reverse.”

“Exactly.”

A thoughtful silence descends on all of them. Gladio feels Ignis’ gaze slide off him, considering the problem; he focuses on wracking his brain for a solution, too. 

They just won back this world. It’s a whole new brand of messed up, that kids are afraid of the sun. There’s gotta be something to fix it, outside of just time.

“Sunglasses, maybe?” a Glaive in the back suggests, and Cor raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously?”

They cross their arms. “It’d make things dark again!”

Next to Cor, Monica runs a hand over her face. Gladio glances at Ignis, ready for a quip, a small lift at the corner of his lips; but Ignis doesn’t seem to be paying attention to the conversation. 

Gladio bites his tongue. Right. 

“Um…” 

The noise is so quiet that for a second, Gladio is sure he imagined it. It’s only the tilt of Ignis’ head that convinces him otherwise, the smallest sign of life that feels like a firecracker of movement.

When he turns to follow it, he realizes that Prompto is fidgeting again. 

Prompto, as a general rule, isn’t a still person. Gladio knows this; he was the one who was always getting accidentally bumped in the car, or on a hunt, or barely stopping a tent pole disaster whenever Prompto got a bit too jittery. He has anxiety off the charts, and maybe the long dark helped toughen him up when it came to creepy-crawlies and caves, but Gladio can still remember Noctis’ snapping voice the first time Gladio teased him about it a bit too hard: Shut up, he can’t afford medication for it, okay? Give him a break. 

He’d been a bit more careful, after that. When it comes to nerves and a certain chocobo-headed companion, Gladio feels like he has it on lockdown now.

But this fidgeting is… different.

If he hadn’t spent so much time with him –fifteen damn years, and when did that happen– maybe he wouldn’t have noticed. But it’s hard to miss now. Prompto is working at his lower lip with his teeth; there’s a considering look on his face, the kind he used to get when he was going over flash cards with Noctis.

Even the memory has Gladio’s stomach lurching to the side. He glances around; no one else heard so much as a peep.

But Ignis is paying attention too. It ain’t his imagination. 

“You say something?” he asks, trying to pitch his voice lower, and Prompto jumps slightly, turning to him with wide eyes. 

“Huh? Oh! No, I just, uh,” Prompto bites his lip harder, glancing at Ignis like he’s searching for some type of silent approval. When Gladio raises an eyebrow – c’mon punk, shoot your shot – the fidgeting gets worse, somehow. “It’s nothing.”

Gladio’s heard enough of that phrase today. “Didn’t seem like it.”

Prompto hesitates. He fiddles with his pen, staring down at his paper. “Well– alright, not nothing but…” 

He trails off, looking embarrassed.  

“If you’ve got an idea, throw it out there,” Gladio tells him, because anything’ll help at this point. Prompto’s plans in the long dark weren’t half-bad; maybe they can bounce off each other or something. “C’mon, what you got for us?” 

“I’d like to hear as well.”

Gladio looks over at Ignis, startled to hear him talk. His head is still tilted at Prompto, an invitation.

Their combined forces do it. Prompto blinks, like he’s surprised, and looks between them. He seems almost shy. “Um, alright,” he says, still whispering like he’s afraid other people will hear him. When Ignis hums once, he straightens a little. “So, okay, this might be sound stupid, but when I was a kid, um, my mom…”

Gladio can’t help but lean forward, interested. He sees Ignis’ head tilt more, too; Prompto never talks about his family.

Unfortunately, the motion catches some attention.

“Y’all brainstorming over here?” 

Cor’s voice is much louder than their whispered conversation. In less than a second, every single eye in the room turns their way. 

Gladio physically sees Prompto’s confidence shrivel into a raisin. 

“No,” he squeaks, and just like that, any chance of getting him to finish what he was saying is shattered. He shrinks back into himself, red as a lobster. “No, sorry!”

Cor raises an eyebrow, but Prompto is already looking back down at his notes, holding his pen so tight it looks like it might snap. 

Ignis is frowning. 

Before Gladio can speak up –because wait a damn second, this is the first thing he’s volunteered and the first thing Ignis has shown actual interest in for weeks, and they’re just gonna let it go?– Cor is moving on. 

“Right, well,” he says, and sighs. “If no one has any ideas, we’ll table it for now. And,” he adds, when the Glaive from earlier huffs, “we’ll see if we can find some damn sunglasses in the meantime. Satisfied?”

There’s a general, unenthusiastic murmur of agreement. 

Damn it, Gladio thinks, watching Prompto pick at his nails. He’s not meeting his eyes anymore, and Gladio knows that sign from miles away: don’t look at me, don’t say anything, I’m invisible.

If Noctis were here–

No. He stops the thought before it can form. 

“Onto the final agenda item, then,” Monica says, when Gladio keeps his trap shut. “We’ll need a few folks to help with some cargo transports through Hammerhead. Navigating the trade agreements to get them there in the first place, dispatching the cars, lugging it all to our safehouses. If anyone’s good at tracking inventory, or just willing to count some shit, we’d like you on hand.”

A few hunters raise their hands; Gladio does too. He may not be able to do a whole lot when it comes to actual planning, but if they need muscle, he’s got plenty.

Besides, he thinks, glancing at Ignis and Prompto. Anything to keep him busy, with Iris taking off. 

Monica writes down each name as the hands go up, her pen scratching against the list. “Alright, Kaneda, Burns, Daymond– ah, lucky day for y’all, looks like you have Amicitia for this one.” She nods to Gladio. “Gonna give you lead on the heavy lifting part of it then.”

Gladio shrugs. “You got it.” 

“You still have those connections in Accordo?” Cor is asking Ignis, who inclines his head. He huffs. “Good. Think you can manage the distribution? No mind like yours when it comes to numbers.”

Ignis opens his mouth, but Monica beats him to it.

“He’s already on the council reorganization project.”

And the gas project, Gladio thinks. And the water cleaning project, and the refugee project, and the border project, and–

“It is no trouble,” Ignis says calmly, and Gladio clenches his fist under the table. Ignis must sense Monica’s frown, or maybe he just doesn’t want to give the chance for another interruption, because he continues smoothly, “I am familiar with balancing many commitments at once. Should you need additional assistance, it is little trouble to add another.”

Gladio thinks of doors creaking open at 3AM, of empty dinner tables. Of a pretend planner, and what it would look like now: how many colors would be blocked into spaces that once held glitter and deepest black. 

“Please send me the details,” Ignis tells Cor, and Gladio makes himself shut up. 

Monica sighs. 

For his part, Cor looks relieved. “I’ll have Gant touch base with you.” He glances around the room. “Anything else?”

No one speaks. After a moment, Monica wracks her knuckles on the table. “Alright. Adjourned.”

And then Cor, with the part that Gladio always dreads the most: “And in the honor of the fallen King, walk tall.”

Next to him, Prompto flinches. 

Ignis is already packing his things back up. The clatter of chairs and squeak of boots on marble drowns out Monica as she turns to Cor, whispering something to him under her breath; sounds annoyed, as far as Gladio can tell, but he’s stopped from listening in by a voice to his left. 

“Amicitia, where do you want us?”

Gladio blinks, turns. The hunters from earlier are gathering around him, expectant.

Right.

“Gonna need to make teams,” he tells them, rising from his own chair. It’s hard to focus; a little to the side, Prompto is talking to Ignis, the same earnest tone as before as he hovers awkwardly at the edge of Ignis’ space.

“...and so maybe I can write it down and then record them with my phone? Or if they have a braille machine somewhere, I know you learned it…”

“I’ll be with Burns, if no one else is calling dibs,” one of the hunters says, and Gladio nods, still focused on Ignis and Prompto. 

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good.”

“There really is no need,” Ignis is telling Prompto, and it’s back again; that distance in his voice. When Prompto opens his mouth, he continues on, “Monica assigned me an assistant when I agreed to oversee the new legal codes. They will accompany me for this new task as well.” 

Prompto draws in on himself a bit. “O-oh. Um, okay.” 

“I do appreciate the offer. But taking notes today was plenty.”

“Sure,” Prompto says, too fast. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll just, y’know…”

He starts to inch away. 

“Amicitia, think we can convince Croasdell to come with us?” Kaneda asks, and Gladio forces his attention back to the conversation, annoyed at himself. What’s he doing; lives are at stake here. He’s gotta focus up– ain’t no time for getting distracted. 

“Maybe. Never seen the kid turn down a fight. Why?”

Kaneda’s voice is almost wistful. “She’s top tier when it comes to sniffing out supplies. Worked with her back at Daurell Springs, it was like she had a damn sixth sense for it.”

“Not a bad idea. I’ll ask.” 

The other hunters brighten, sharing looks; Gladio has to resist snorting. Competence was always appreciated by people in their circles, but in the long dark, it’s become downright sexy. 

He surveys the group; with the four of them, they’ve got a broadsword, a lance, some good trappers. But… 

“Anyone here able to take down flyers?”

The hunters all glance at each other, eyebrows raised– that’s a no then. Shit. Gladio might not have the best memory, but even he remembers that giant bird they’d run into all those years ago in the cliffs outside Galdin Quay, doing that mission for whatever-his-name-was journalist. 

(Gossip reporter, he can hear Ignis’ voice correct in his head almost instantly. He was right, too. Damn magazines.) 

Anyways. Daemons could take out a lot of things, but that bird? He doesn’t think so; especially with the new reports coming out of folks seeing shadows high off the ground. 

If they run into that, they might not be toast, but the cargo sure as hell would be. 

An idea strikes him.

“Hey,” he starts, turning to where Prompto and Ignis were talking, because maybe none of them can take out flying targets, but he knows who could without breaking a sweat: the best marksman in all of Eos. “You interested, Pr—uh.” 

He blinks. Everyone else is milling about, talking to each other, joking or making plans (and there’s Ignis, walking out of the room as he listens to Monica); but Prompto…

Prompto is gone. 

“Amicitia? You lookin’ for something?” 

Slowly, Gladio turns back to the rest of the group. 

“Never mind,” he says, and doesn’t think about the uncomfortable feeling settling under his skin. “Who wants to drive?”

The shitty thing about knowing two people for a good portion of your life is this: when something is wrong, your brain can’t help but notice.

Even if life is busy, and you’re working yourself to the bone every day. Even if you don’t sleep well, and half the time you don’t see them between dawn and dusk (and how damn strange is that, still, to count time that way again— to see it in the sky). Even if you really, really don’t want to see it. 

But especially if you do. 

And Gladio can’t help but want to, when it comes to Ignis and Prompto. 

Maybe he’s the muscle man, the one who swore to be the Shield to their king, but he ain’t stupid. He’s known Ignis through the damn marilith scare, and the godsawful rush of hormones that was puberty and acne. Hell, Noctis’ own puberty too, which was somehow worse than both of theirs combined. 

("Teenage tantrum again?” he remembers teasing Ignis when Noct was thirteen, every time he looked a bit too frazzled for it to just be council business. 

Ignis would always sigh. Push up his glasses. “If I have to lecture Noct on the benefits of continuing to use deodorant on weekends one more time…”

“Ha! Well, a mother’s work never ends, does it?”) 

Same with Prompto– Gladio got to see him grow into the awkward lankiness, be at his side as his confidence slowly poked out from behind cover until he was smiling and joking and laughing with the rest of them. Breezing through the world in cars and camping trips, positive even when it felt impossible to be. 

(“Whoa!! Guys, check this out—”

“Prompto, you’re gonna fall off the cliff!”

“I must agree, Prompto. That’s quite perilous—aaand, he’s not listening. Gladio, would you?”

“You got it, Iggy.”

“C’mon, don’t be silly,” and Prompto had leaned forward over the side of the cliff face, balancing on the edge of his shoes, “I just need to get this one shot— ooooooooOOOOOOH MY GOD H—"

“Gladio!!”

Screaming, a scramble of rocks and crunching boots. Four relieved gasps. 

“Got ‘em!!”

“Oh gods ohgods Shiva’s tits I thought I was gonna DIE—”)

The point is: he knows how they’re supposed to act. Outside of his family, Ignis and Prompto are the closest to anyone he’s ever been: stuck together like damn glue in Iris’ scrapbooks, sharing beds and tents and challenges up ‘til the King said walk tall. Even before the ten years of darkness, if someone would’a asked him who he knew best, it’d be the two of them first and foremost, right up there at the front. 

(Would have been three, his mind whispers sometimes at night, when he can’t sleep and his chest feels too tight. Three people you knew best, who you swore your life to, but now–)

So it’s not exactly hard to notice that something’s off. 

“Hey,” he says to Ignis in month one. Before another meeting, because he never has time to catch Ignis alone anymore.“You holding up?”

And Ignis –Ignis, who would have told him anything a long time ago, who used to smile and laugh and lean against his side in a way he didn’t do with anyone else– says, calm and perfect and empty: “Of course.”

“Yo, Prompto,” he tries in month two, the rare chance that he catches Prompto out of his room. Door is always shut, and it’s like living alone, most days. “Heard Cindy needs some help with a new car they’re building, lower gas requirements or some shit. Wanna come along?”

And Prompto  –who had taken bullets for Gladio before, who would give him dopey grins and make dumb jokes and blush up a storm at the smallest tease– avoids his gaze. Manages, “O-oh. Sorry. I, um… can’t.”

To Cindy. 

So yeah. Maybe he and Ignis fell out, kind of, halfway into the stretch of dark, but– he’s still Ignis. And sure, Gladio and Prompto had different interests, different strengths, but Gladio still cared about him, counted on him and was counted on in return.

He doesn’t need someone to tell him something’s wrong, not when he can spot it miles away. 

But that doesn’t mean he has any damn idea how to fix it, either. 

So when Iris says, “I’m worried about you,” out of the blue one morning, right on the three-month mark, it takes every ounce of control in Gladio’s body not to tense up. 

It’s been a rough few days. Gladio hasn’t seen Ignis since the start of the week, and Prompto has been quiet as a mouse, coming and going before Gladio can so much as say hello. Shelters are all set up, the city in some semblance of order again, so Gladio’s been put on the team focused on rebuilding the Citadel. That’s something in and of itself; hallways Gladio used to know, memories tracing themselves up the walls like vines he can’t seem to shake off no matter how hard he tries.

Three months. He can’t believe it.

Maybe that’s why her voice hits so hard, crackling and buzzing over his shitty phone.

“What? Me?” he asks her, pausing halfway through sharpening his sword. He hasn’t had to use it since– since that day, but it never hurts. When she hums, he frowns. “What are you talking about?”

On the other end of the line, Iris pauses.

She’s been busy in Lestallum, so busy that this is the first time they’ve been able to talk for a few weeks. It’s different than in the long dark, when they worked hand in hand for years tracking things down; Gladio isn’t so wrapped up in himself that he denies he misses her, but there’s a pride in it too, hearing all the work she’s doing helping get things running again. 

But the pause gets his hackles up. 

“Well,” she starts, and Gladio can hear a rustle on the other end– her shifting, maybe. She’s like Promoto; not liking to stay still while she talks. “I don’t know, Gladdy. You’ve seemed a little off, lately.”

He blinks. Him? 

A glance around at the apartment shows him alone, as always. Without meaning to, he scowls. It’s not him who has been off.

“Dunno what you’re talking about.”

He means it, too. If he’s off, it’s because there’s no time to think, not when people need help and the city needs rebuilding. For so many, the new light that rises each morning has softened everything: the fear, the dismay, each bad sign that piled up over the years until Noctis came back. Now that things are really going, new trade routes and safe havens and reconstruction groups all throwing themselves at the future, he can’t afford to pause, not for anything.  

Humanity is struggling on. Gladio can see it on the sunburnt faces of the people who pass by when he walks the streets: hope. Meanwhile, he’s busy just trying to get through each damn day. What’s he gonna do— talk about it?

(Yeah, right. Ignis was the talker of the group, the one who knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Whenever Gladio tried, it was like sticking his foot in his mouth. He still remembers that day in the swampy pools of Fodina Caestino; how he’d meant one thing, and it came out entirely as another.

It’s not about what he wants! 

He wonders if Ignis has forgiven him for that. Gods knows Gladio wouldn’t, if he was in his place.)

So, yeah– he’s fine. He’s coping. There’s shit to do. 

But Iris tuts. 

“Gladdy,” she says, dipping into frustration, “come on. Don’t be like this.”

Gladio can feel defensiveness rising in him like the low flame of a campfire. “I’m not being like anything,” he protests, and when Iris sighs, grips his sword tighter. “I’m serious, sis. I’m fine.”

After all, he’s taking care of what needs to be done. With most of the damn world still destroyed, people flooding in with needs and hopes and histories, he counts keeping his head above water as pretty dang good. 

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Iris says slowly, like she’s picking her words carefully. Gladio’s entire body feels tight –what’s that supposed to mean?–and she must somehow know, because when she next speaks, her voice is gentler. “Sorry. It’s just…Monica says you and Ignis have been working yourselves ragged.”

This time, the scowl is very much on purpose, even if she can’t see him. “Oh, so you’ve been gossiping?” 

“Talking, not gossiping.”

“Riiight.”

“I mean it,” Iris shoots back, and when Gladio just grinds his teeth so he doesn’t say something rude (she’s his sister, it ain’t her fault things are shit and the world isn’t what it used to be), she sighs again. “Look, I’m not trying to say you’re not doing good work, okay? You are. That isn’t why I’m calling. It’s just…”

She trails off. A rare thing, for Iris; he can’t even begin to count the number of times she’s talked his ear off about nothing and everything all at once. Something her and Prompto share, he thinks, glancing at the closed door to his and Ignis’ room. 

Or, shared. Before everything.  

The thought is like lead in his stomach. He takes a deep breath; runs a hand over his face. What is he doing, snapping at her like she’s some kind of stranger, just for wondering the same things he has?

C’mon, shield. Do your damn job. You gonna let your little sister worry for you over nothing?

"Look." He pinches the bridge of his nose; there’s a headache blooming at the front of his vision, and like hell he’s gonna let it show in his voice. “I know you’re just thinkin’ about me, but I’m fine. Iggy’s working harder than I am, anyways.”

“Oh yeah? That’s not what I’ve heard.”

Gladio holds back a wince; he knows that tone. It’s her stubborn one, the one she used to use when she felt he was going too easy on her during sparring sessions. 

“Maybe you just have bad sources,” he tries to tease, but he doesn’t have any heart behind it. There’s more fidgeting on the other end; he hears a muffled voice, like she’s in a room and someone else is talking outside of it. 

For a moment, they sit in silence. He listens to her breathing; tries to calm his own scattered thoughts. 

Her next words are the softest yet. “Gladdy?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember when dad died?”

Gladio blinks. 

“Course I do,” he manages after a moment, confused, because how could he forget? It’d taken everything in him not to break down when Ignis gave him the news; to stand tall and grit his teeth and get Noctis through the King’s death too, until they were safe with Cor and he could curl up into his bed and silently cry himself to sleep. He’d always known it could end like that, what with being told his whole life; take the hit first, and all that. He’d thought he’d come to terms with the idea, that if their dad was gonna die it’d be at the King’s side, just like he was expected to for Noctis, but– “Why?”

Iris draws in a small breath. 

“After it happened, when we met up in Lestallum,” she says, still soft. A small swallow makes its way down to him, the click of a throat. “Do you remember what you told me?”

It takes Gladio a second to place what she’s talking about. Back then, the days all felt like they bled together: the Niffs, and missions, and trying to get Noctis to Titan. 

But then it hits him, hard and fast, like a wave crashing over his head: Iris, doing her absolute best to be peppy and helpful when they arrived, even though Gladio could see clear as day that she was one wrong wind away from breaking apart.

Fifteen, acting like someone who was twenty-five, and it’d gnawed at Gladio for hours. 

“Hey,” he’d told her, deep into the night. Noctis and Prompto asleep in their beds a floor below, Ignis quietly sewing up their patched clothes at their slumbering sides. He hadn’t looked up when Gladio had snuck out the door; he was good like that, Ignis. Always knew when to check in and, more importantly, when not to. “C’mere.”

She’d turned to him, eyes wide. “Huh?”

So Gladio had crossed over to her bed. Settled down on it; wrapped an arm around her, and held her tight. 

“You don’t gotta pretend with me, you know,” he’d said, and she’d just stared at him, eyes shining in the light from the lamp. “It’s alright, to need to cry about it.”

Because their father was dead. Their city was destroyed. Who knew if they would live until tomorrow; if their loved ones would. And his little sister, who once cried for two hours straight when he refused to let her give him a pedicure when she was ten, hadn’t shed a single tear. 

He can recall, in vivid clarity, the way she’d sucked in a breath. How she’d croaked, “Gladdy.” 

And Gladio had held her tighter. Tucked her close as her eyes had filled with tears, a whole new shine; as her shoulders shook into hitching, ugly sobs, the kind of sobs that shook the foundation of their world like one of Titan’s earthquakes.

And as she’d cried herself hoarse in his arms, he’d promised: “Even if I don’t know what to do, I’ll always listen.”

Now, there’s something pulling in his chest; memory and the present mixing together, so tight that it’s like a vice. 

“That’s–” he starts, because it’s not the same, not at all, but Iris talks over him, somehow still gentle.

“I’m just saying that you can talk to me, okay?”

Gladio opens his mouth. Closes it. 

Unbidden, he thinks about all the things he could say. That it feels impossible, sometimes, how the world is moving on, faster than the speed of light. That Ignis and Prompto are like strangers most days, when they were once arm-in-arm, puppet shadows of the living men he thought he knew. That everywhere he looks, he sees him here, in shadowed corners and familiar rooms. 

That it’s been three months. Three months, and how is that possible, when it feels like just yesterday Gladio had him in a headlock, telling him to toughen up?

On the other side of the phone, Iris shifts, a small breath. She’s waiting, he realizes, for him to say something. 

“Yeah,” he croaks, the crackling connection a quiet background to his thoughts. The apartment is so, so still. “I know, I do. It’s just…complicated, Iris.”

The words feel inadequate, but Iris clicks her tongue, considering.

“Yeah? How so?”

Gladio searches for the right thing to say. “Iggy and Prompto are still, y’know, adjusting,” he settles with. It doesn’t feel right, coming out –too close to the truth while not enough. Iris sees right through it in a second. 

“You mean they aren’t doing well.”

He sucks in a breath. “I don’t know.” And then, when she just waits in silence: “Maybe.”

It’s like a jolt, saying it. He’s thought it countless times, but now that he’s entertained it, it’s– too real. 

They’re not doing well. They’re just not. 

“What about you?” she prompts, and Gladio wishes he had something to do with his hands. He goes back to the blade.

“I’m adjusting fine. Just– busy, like I said.”

“But not a good busy,” Iris murmurs, and, when Gladio opens his mouth to protest, continues, “C’mon, Gladdy. It’s okay. I know it’s easier to tell, sometimes, with Iggy and Prompto, but you’re having a rough time, too.”

He grits his teeth. “I can handle it.”

“You need a break,” Iris counters. The voices on the other end ebb and flow, people moving about, and she lowers hers. “Gladdy, listen. Ignis hasn’t thought of a new recipe in months. When I met with Prompto last week for one of the supply missions, he wasn’t carrying his camera. And you’re– you haven’t made a joke or read a new book in forever. You all need a break, like, now.”

Gladio frowns. He didn’t– he hadn’t noticed that, about Ignis and Prompto. 

“He didn’t fix it?”

“What?”

“The camera,” Gladio says, and when Iris makes a confused noise, shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Prompto must not have, then. But– it’s his camera. Gladio once saw him climb into a nest of flans when one squelched it off him on accident during a fight, and it’s still broken? 

“Hello?” Iris prompts, and Gladio forces his attention back to her. His throat is weird, all tight. “You still with me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course, sorry, shitty connection.”

She makes a doubtful noise. “Okay. And the break?”

“Ain’t got the time,” Gladio tells her, which is true. “They need us here, Iris.”

“Maybe,” Iris concedes, but before he can be relieved about it, she adds, “but you need a break more. You can’t keep just–”

She stops herself abruptly, like she was about to say something and realized right beforehand that he wasn’t gonna take it well. Gladio curls his hand around the sharpener, trying not to tense up again.

“Just?”

Iris is quiet for a moment. Then she sighs. “I don’t know. Haven’t you given enough?”

The air in the room goes still. Gladio’s heart skips: once, twice. 

“What?” he manages after a beat, and he’s not sure what he feels, because– enough of what? Whatever it is, it comes through in his tone, something hoarse and raw. 

But Iris doesn’t back down, because she never does.

“Haven’t you given enough?” she repeats. Gladio doesn’t know what he could possibly say to that, not when the words are like a foreign language in his brain, but Iris spares him the need to, continuing with increasing strength: “Our whole lives, you’ve done exactly what other people told you to. First Dad, and King Regis, and then Noct–” Gladio tries not to flinch, “–and then the whole freaking world, for ten years. ”

Something in the words make him bristle. “That was my duty. My choice. ” 

He’d wanted to serve Noctis. Wanted to protect him, wanted– 

“Course it was,” Iris agrees instantly. “And you were damn good at it. But–don’t you think you’ve earned a break?”

His head is spinning. “From what?” 

Iris’ voice is firm. “From this. You’ve given everything, I’ve seen it. The three of you… you’ve given the world all you’ve got, and more.” She draws in a breath. “And maybe… maybe it’s time for the world to give you something back, for a change.”

It’s like she’s just slapped him in the face. A true, physical blow; one knocking him off balance with surprise, with the pure inconceivability of them even being said.  

For a moment, he can’t even breathe. 

A thousand responses come to mind right after: what the hell are you talking about, and the world doesn’t owe me anything, and I didn’t give everything, because I’m still alive, aren’t I, even though, even though he’s–

Nothing comes out. 

“I…” he tries, but the rest of it is lost to him. He– what? He doesn’t know. Not a damn clue. 

On the other end of the phone, the talking is getting louder. Someone says Iris’ name, and there’s a muffled noise, like Iris just covered the receiver. “One second, Gladdy,” she says, and he makes himself breathe in, out, as some type of a back-and-forth takes place, her tone dipping into concern a few moments in.

Haven’t you given enough? 

It bounces around in his head, unceasing. 

When Iris returns to the call, her voice is chagrined.

“Hey, I have to go,” she tells him, regret plain in the words, and Gladio doesn’t know whether to be relieved or upset. Both, maybe; neither. “Some bandits are poking around our storage in Kelbass Grasslands. Aranea is sending out a team to scare them away.”

Gladio clears his throat: oh. “Yeah. Sure, of course— get goin’.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be.” Normal, he has to be normal. “I’m just sad I can’t be there with you to kick some ass.”

“I’ll do extra ass-kicking for you,” she promises, and Gladio huffs out a laugh. His mind is still spinning. There’s a moment of hesitation on the other end of the line, before Iris adds, “And think about what I said, okay?”

All at once, Gladio’s throat is tight again. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

“I mean it, Gladdy. A break. You could even come visit me, if you wanted, bring along Iggy and Prompto.”

“Maybe.” 

“Or somewhere else,” Iris says, like she can hear his thoughts. “A trip, anything. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“I will.” Gladio’s hands are shaking, just slightly. When Iris makes a disbelieving noise, he forces more conviction into his voice. “I will, Iris. I swear I heard you, I did.” 

Fuck, did he hear her. It’s like he’s in fog, and it’s the only thing he can see. 

“Alright,” she breathes, and clicks her tongue in annoyance as another Oi, Amicitia makes its way down the line from the background. “Okay, okay, I’m coming! Geeze. Talk to you later, Gladdy.”

“Yeah, of course. Hey– you’re a pain in the ass, but I love you.”

This time, he can hear her smile. “I love you too, you big doofus. Bye.”

The phone clicks, the line going quiet. And Gladio stares at the screen for a long, long time before he puts his head between his knees and lets it fade to black.

———

What he said to Iris wasn’t a lie: he thinks about it. 

Not on purpose. Not even because he wants to. But now that she’s said it, now that the words have been thrown before him in the open air, it’s like he can’t do anything but think about it.

Haven’t you given enough? through the council meetings for the week. Haven’t you given enough? through the heavy lifting, and endless strategizing. Haven’t you given enough? as he works through the new faces, and the way the world gradually seems to shift back to some semblance of order, as more and more people step up and help with the cause. 

Haven’t you given enough?

He can’t get it out of his damn head. 

It’s like the thought has unlocked something, deep inside him, something he didn’t even know existed in the first place. Maybe he should be relieved, but he’s not; in the wake of her words, each task seems harder, each day looping in on itself more and more.

Haven’t you given enough? He doesn’t know. He can’t figure it out.

What else would he even do, besides this? 

In the end, it turns out he doesn’t get the chance to try and make sense of it. Because precisely ten days later, Prompto looks up from the silent dinner the three of them are sharing and says, “Hey, so– I think I’m going to take off.”

And then, when Ignis pauses and Gladio blinks, he adds:

“You know, from Insomnia.”

All of Gladio goes cold.

The night has been unusually quiet, even for them. It’s rare that they all sit down to eat at the same time, but Monica’s scouts found a cave that somehow still had mushrooms growing in it— edible ones at that, and enough to feed a good portion of the new folks coming in, if they rationed it right. 

To say people were excited would be an understatement. 

“Take the night off, folks,” Monica had instructed, and everyone had cheered, and the rest of the meeting had been canceled, and they all got to take home a nice portion of something they hadn’t tasted in years. Not that Prompto or Gladio knew what to do with them; so here they are, sharing a meal Ignis wrangled together from leftovers and fungi. 

If Gladio is being honest, it’s not fully the same– he used to be able to taste the joy in everything Ignis cooked. Now, it’s just food. Good food, of course, but he can tell: where once there was love and curiosity now holds only the mechanical motions of habit. 

Yet another thing that’s changed, in this new world. 

Maybe that’s why it’s been quiet, in the end. Gladio isn’t sure if it’s that, or the day, or the fact that none of them have slept well the past few nights; but whatever it is, the clink of metal forks on their camping plates (not like they care about china) have been the only thing breaking the all-too-familiar silence for the last few minutes.

Until Prompto, that is.

Gladio turns to him so fast that his chair scrapes across the floor, an unpleasant screeeee. 

“What?” he asks, because he must have misheard– but Prompto is looking down at his plate, biting his lip. He blinks a few times, trying to process. “Like, for the week, or…?”

Prompto glances at him. Gladio sees him draw in a big breath.

Oh no. 

“Like, for good,” Prompto tells him. And then, when Gladio stares: “I’ve just been thinking– it’s time to set sail, you know?”

Gladio doesn’t know. He doesn’t know so much that he can feel himself gaping. He glances at Ignis; Ignis, who has been listlessly poking his food all evening, but has paused, now, head raised in Prompto’s direction. Even in the light, he might as well be half-dead: skin and bones, what was once a lithe and beautiful body now a neglected one. Gladio and Prompto have tanned a bit from all their work outside, but he’s as pale as he was in the long dark–maybe more. Waxy, like one of those statues in a museum. 

There’s a tired, quiet acceptance on his face. 

“Ah,” he remarks, light, and Gladio doesn’t know why, but it’s that sound that makes everything feel real. 

All at once, he’s pissed.

“You’re leaving?” he checks, again, swinging back around to Prompto, because how could— how could he? When Prompto just gives a jerky nod, he clenches his fists. “Why?” 

This is his home. Where Noct grew up; and Prompto might not have been like him and Ignis, hired to fit his role, but Gladio knows he was just as loyal as they were. After everything they’ve been through together, he’s going?

Prompto gives him a shaky smile, the kind that doesn’t sit right in Gladio’s vision. “Aww, big guy, you worried? It’s all good, I just have, um, places to be. Stuff to do.”

That’s bullshit if Gladio has ever heard it; Prompto is a lot of things, but a good liar isn’t one of them. He can’t help the anger seeping through to his tone this time. “Like what?” 

What could be more important than this? What–

“Gladio.”

Gladio’s head snaps to Ignis. In the time they’ve gone back and forth, Ignis has set down his own fork and knife, thin fingers resting delicately on the table. His attention is fully focused on Prompto, unwavering; but his head is tilted at Gladio, just a little, and even though his face is blank, Gladio can hear the warning in it.

He glances back at Prompto, who is looking firmly back down, hands curled tightly around themselves like he’s holding on for dear life. His shoulders have hunched in, as if trying to protect himself. 

Because of Gladio. 

Instantly, Gladio’s anger dies out. 

(Guilt creeps in, filling the space. Ignis hasn’t scolded him since that awful night in Gralea. Ten years, and now when he does, it’s not for himself– but because Gladio is gettin’ out of line, just like in the long dark.

Damn it.)

“Sorry,” he manages, and Prompto peeks up at him, almost timid. He forces himself to sit back in his chair; hadn’t even realized he had made himself bigger in the first place. “Just–caught me off guard. You’re really leaving?”

Prompto swallows.

“Yeah,” he croaks, and clears his throat. When he straightens up, his voice is a bit firmer. “Yeah. Next week, I think. Talcott is driving down to Hammerhead, he said I could catch a ride.”

Gladio sucks in a breath. Tries to process the idea. Fails spectacularly. 

“Oh,” he says. Even Ignis seems surprised; he’s leaned forward, just slightly. 

“Quite soon, then.”

“Well.” Prompto rubs the back of his neck. “No time like the present! Or— whatever they say.”

They could not say that, though, is Gladio’s first ridiculous thought, and he crosses his arms, trying to control his expression. The silence that follows is long and awkward, like even the air knows whatever is happening is tip-going on the edge of something, so it’s taking its time, settling over all of them. 

It’s Ignis that breaks it. “Where will you go?”

The words are soft; much gentler than Gladio’s were. But he’s always been like that, an effortless kind of respectful. Prompto bites his lip anyway, holding Ignis’ unseeing gaze for just a beat before his own eyes stutter back down again.

“I don’t know. Cindy’s, maybe? Or– or Wiz’s place, I heard he needs help with the chocobos.”

He doesn’t sound very confident about it. Gladio frowns.

“Alone?” he checks, trying to wade through the details–because they’ve all been on long hunts before with the rest of HQ, and maybe this is just that, some kind of run where he just doesn’t know when it’ll end. Gladio could help, if that’s the case; no need to do it alone. 

But Prompto pauses, picking at his wristband. It takes him longer to speak, this time. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually. He licks his lips, once, twice. “Yeah, figured I could go solo, for, um, a bit.”

What the hell, Gladio wants to say. He glances at Ignis, wishing, not for the first time, that they could still swap looks that held hours of silent conversations in one. As long as he’s known Prompto, he’s hated not having someone around: he was always hanging off of Noctis, or hovering at the sideline of Ignis’ cooking, or popping up from nowhere at Gladio’s back. He’s just— like that. 

So why leave, without anyone to go with him? 

Ignis is somehow still calm. “I see,” he says, like they’re discussing the weather. “And your various jobs here?”

Prompto shifts in his seat, chair creaking quietly under his weight. “Yeah– yeah, of course.” He shoots another quick look at Gladio, and he must not like what he sees, because he draws in a breath, words coming quicker. “I’m not– leaving anything undone, or, or causing any problems. Or, well, I know it’ll probably suck to be a person down, it’ll make things even harder on you for a bit but–”

“Nonsense.”

“C’mon, don’t be stupid.” 

“–I’m not like you guys, I’m not imp–huh?” 

“Nonsense,” Ignis repeats quietly, as Prompto’s head swings rapidly between the both of them, eyes huge. For once, Gladio has to agree; that’s the dumbest shit he’s ever heard. When Prompto just keeps staring, Ignis’ face softens, the smallest amount. “That is not why I was asking.”

Prompto blinks. “O-oh.”

“I was asking,” Ignis continues, still so calm and measured, “in case you needed assistance.”

Prompto’s eyes have reached saucer levels. 

“Assistance?” he echoes, and Ignis nods, just once. 

“Of course. Is there anything you need, while you are still here? Help packing? I could put in a word with Monica, if you’d like.”

Gladio feels something warm and raw swell up in his chest at the offer. Instantly, he’s back to twelve years ago, the day they moved Prompto into his first apartment near the Citadel: it’d rained, he remembers, and they’d all had to sprint across the asphalt of the parking lot like wild courels hunting down prey in order to save all his boxes from soaking through in the back of the rickety pickup Noct had mistakenly rented.

“It’s not my fault!” Noct had complained later; soaked through, his T-shirt clinging to him as Ignis busied around getting everyone towels. “You said a truck!”

“I said a transport truck, Noct. Not the abomination currently contributing to greenhouse gasses parked outside.”

A laugh from Prompto. “Oooh, dude, Iggy’s mad! No more royal credit card for you!” 

And Gladio, sitting on the couch with a beer, “I dunno, Iggy. Nothing like a truck to make you feel like a real man.”

“Wonderful,” Ignis had said sweetly, and tossed a towel at him, one he knew Prompto definitely didn’t buy. “Perhaps you can finally put on a shirt, then.” 

Now, Prompto is holding his hands up, startled.

“No, no, I’m good,” he rushes, and Gladio blinks, taken aback by the speed of it. “You’re, like, super busy, and I don’t even have a lot anyways, so…”

He trails off, blushing. 

That’s a no, then. Ignis just hums. 

“Even so.” He picks up his fork again, smooth and practiced. It’s a small movement, but Gladio can see it in his shoulders: a kind of resigned acceptance, like when the doctor in Altissa warned him that he would probably never see again, healing magic or not. “Should you need anything, I’m merely a word away.”

“Right.” Prompto straightens up a little, squares his shoulders. “Yeah, um, of course.”

He looks distinctly uncomfortable. Gladio holds back a sigh. Well. Here goes nothing, then. 

“Count me in too.”

Prompto jerks in surprise, twisting to look at Gladio like he’d forgotten he was even there. “Huh?”

It’d make him laugh, any other time. He’s pretty sure a giant could sneak up on Prompto nowadays, smell and all. But that ain’t a comforting thought, so Gladio just clears his throat instead, trying to arrange his face into something like a smile. 

Looks like they’re having this conversation, whether he likes it or not, so. 

“With helping you out,” he clarifies. When Prompto just blinks more, openly startled, he cracks his knuckles, putting on his best grin.“You gotta go, then you gotta go. And I might not be able to pack like Iggy can, but I can carry luggage like no other. You need a muscle man, I’m yours.”

To demonstrate, he flexes one of his arms. It’s not what he wants to do, of course– not even close. But Ignis is right: if Prompto is gonna go, then the least he can do is not be an ass about it. 

(He already did that, during the long dark. Snapped, and said things he didn’t mean to, and he can’t take any of that shit back. But at least he can make it so this time, if one of them is leaving, they’re leaving knowing he has their back.)

After all, Insomnia isn’t the only place in the world that needs people. If Prompto thinks he has a place somewhere else, then who is Gladio, to stop him? 

Prompto’s mouth is doing something strange. He looks down before Gladio can process it, face hidden beneath the flop of his chocobo hair. When he speaks, his voice is a little wet. 

“Thanks, big guy.”

Gladio clenches his hands underneath the table. “You know it.”

“If you are to go, then I wish you well in it,” Ignis adds, and Gladio’s chest twists viciously again, hearing the softness there. That’s the Ignis he knows. Fuck, he missed hearing his voice like that— and he’s under there, Gladio can see it, in moments like this, and he just needs to figure out how to get that part of Ignis to appear again. “You will be missed.” 

At the last part, Prompto’s flush deepens all the way down to his neck.

“Oh, that’s–nah,” he stutters, so quiet that Gladio almost doesn’t hear it. He squirms in his seat, refusing to meet their eyes. “I’m– you– thanks. You don’t have to say that, though, I… I’m good, you know?”

Gladio frowns. Okay, that’s one hell of a weird way to respond to that. “What–”

Is that supposed to mean, he’s gonna ask, because Ignis has tilted his head again, which means he wasn’t expecting that kinda reaction either– but before he can speak, Prompto has jumped up. 

“Anyways,” he says loudly, and motions toward his and Ignis’ shared door. “Whew! All this talking really took it out of me, haa! I’m gonna go rest up, get some beauty sleep. Sorry if I, um, ruined the mood.”

Without waiting for either of them to respond, he turns to go. Gladio feels a tug in his chest, like a string pulled too tight; a sudden rush of urgency, down to his bones. 

“Hold on—”

“One moment.”

Prompto freezes like an anak caught in the headlights, glancing between them. Ignis tilts his head to Gladio, curious; Gladio backs off, quick. 

“Nothing.” He doesn’t even know what he was gonna say; the words just came out. “Go ahead, Iggy.”

Ignis considers him for a moment. Then, slowly, he turns back to Prompto. 

“Your dinner,” he says, and how the hell he knows Prompto got up without it is beyond Gladio— no scrape of the plates, maybe? But he inclines his head to where Prompto’s portion is, still a good three-quarters full. “Bring it along with you, if you’d like.” 

Prompto flushes again. 

“Ah!” He rushes back, openly flustered. “Right. Sorry, Iggy, I swear it’s good—”

Ignis shakes his head. “No offense taken. Best not waste it, though.”

“Course! You don’t mind, if it’s in our room…?”

“Not at all. The leftovers can be placed in the fridge.”

“Cool,” Prompto says, but it doesn’t feel cool. Gladio watches him back up, plate clutched tightly in his hands. He doesn’t ask Gladio what he was going to say. “Right, um. Thanks for dinner! And night, then.” 

With that, he beelines to his and Ignis’ room. There’s a creak of the floorboard, the groan of pipes. Then the door has clicked quietly shut behind him, and it’s just Gladio and Ignis, sitting at the table with their steadily cooling food. 

Well, shit, Gladio thinks, staring down at his plate. And then, more vehemently: Fuck. 

He’s, abruptly, exhausted. 

Where it comes from, he doesn’t know. Outside, a dog is barking; the building groans from the swell of summer heat, pipes rattling beneath their feet as the people next door run the sink. And Gladio, in this still and heavy room, is more exhausted than he’s ever been. 

Not worn down. Not tired. 

Bone-deep, to-his-core hollowed out. 

He glances at Ignis. When they were talking with Prompto, he’d started pushing his food around on his plate again; but now, he’s staring into nothing, his fork and knife set to the side once more. Not even nicely on the plate like he’d used to nag Gladio about, but haphazardly on the wood of the table, angles crooked and decidedly not neat. 

“You’re like a maid,” Gladio used to tease him; him, and Prompto too, when they’d scurry around like little worker bees intent on collecting Noctis’ perpetual mess. No one was as hyper-attuned to order as Ignis, but Prompto had always been willing to join in on anything, if it made him happy. “You know, like the ones in those cafes?”

Ignis had glared. Prompto had, predictably, gone bright pink.

“Hey! I’m not a maid! I’m like… a ninja cleaner!”

“Sure. Hey, Iggy, think we can make an apron part of the dress code?”

“Oh, do shut up–”

Now, the fork and knife seem to taunt him. Such simple things, and Gladio can’t look away.

The sound of Ignis standing up from the table jerks him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, hey, I’ll help,” he says quickly, as Ignis reaches for his plate. He scrambles up, and before Ignis can protest, grabs their silverware and starts heading towards the sink. “You made the meal, so I’ve got dishes duty.”

Ignis trails slowly after him. “There’s no need.”

“Nah, I want to.”

There’s a pause— not unpleasant, just there. 

“Well, then,” Ignis murmurs, and when Gladio glances at him again, his head is tilted down, just slightly, the soft strands of his hair covering his scarred eyes. No glasses, today; not for a while, actually. “At least allow me to assist.”

Oi. Can’t say no to that. 

It’s quiet as they go about putting the leftovers away. Gladio wouldn’t call it companionable, exactly —his head is in fifty different places, some invisible weight on his shoulders that he can’t fully put words to— but just there, instead. Kind of like Ignis used to be: unobtrusive but present. 

It’s the opposite of the closed door behind him, taking up his attention like a looming shadow. Not for the first time, he wishes Noctis were here. It’s stupid, and he hates himself for it, but– he can’t help it. 

Then again, he thinks, watching Ignis dip his finger into the sink to check the water level as it rises: if he were here, they wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. 

Maybe it’s that thought, or maybe it’s just the way Ignis’ shoulders are drawn and tight, that gives him the courage to speak up.

“So,” he starts, as Ignis delicately places the first of the plates into the steaming, soapy water, “That was a bombshell.”

Ignis hums. “Indeed.”

Despite the words, he doesn’t sound surprised. He doesn’t sound like anything at all. When he holds out his hand for the next plate, a silent request, Gladio gives it over to him without comment, hyper-aware of the distance between their fingers. Ignis doesn’t like to be touched unexpectedly, he knows–he hid it pretty well when he first went blind, for Noctis’ sake he’s sure, but he’s learned how to read the signs over the years. 

He should leave it at that. He really, really should.  

His mouth opens anyways. “Think he’ll be okay, all on his own?”

“I’d imagine so,” Ignis replies levelly, and Gladio leans against the sink, watching his elegant fingers as they pick up the washcloth and begin to pass over the plastic. For a few seconds, Gladio thinks that’s the end of the conversation. Then Ignis adds, almost too casual: “Are you concerned?”

Gladio blinks at him. There’s a small undercurrent of… something, in Ignis’ voice. Not curiosity, really, but it feels like an opening. 

“Aren’t you?”

Another considering hum. “He seemed sure of his choice. It would be foolish to doubt him now, after all he’s done.”

The statement is almost too neutral, like Ignis used to be when he was talking to a council member. It’d be easy to move on, dismiss it, but Gladio stops, really turns it over in his head. He’s right, in a way. Prompto isn’t the fifteen-year-old, clumsy boy who they met nearly two decades ago. He’s seen him take down giants solo, watched as hunters went from doubting him to turning to him whenever they knew they’d be on a particularly tough run.

But through it all, he’s still been Prompto. Prompto, who was loyal to a fault; who gave Noctis everything he had, even though there was no duty to bind him to it. 

He realizes, abruptly, that Ignis’ reply didn’t answer the question at all. 

“Just didn’t expect him to ever take off,” he admits, watching Ignis closely for a reaction. When he doesn’t get one, just more steady swipes of cloth on plastic that look more automatic than intentional, he adds, “Did you?”

This time, Ignis does pause. The silence hangs in the air for a few beats. 

Then, very quietly, Ignis says, “Yes.”

Gladio stares at him. He says it almost like a confession– like even for him, the master of words, that one was hard to say. 

“You did?” 

Ignis nods. “I suspected. He has…” A moment of hesitation; Gladio waits, feeling like he’s on a razor’s edge. Ignis never hesitates. Never. 

But Ignis doesn’t finish his sentence. So Gladio prompts, “Has?”

For a second, Gladio doesn’t think Ignis is going to reply. But then he swallows, and lets out a small breath. 

“He,” Ignis says slowly, and it’s like he’s choosing his words carefully, “has given enough, don’t you think?”

All the breath leaves Gladio’s body. 

In a second, he’s back with Iris on the phone. His head swimming, her words echoing ceaselessly over and over in his mind:  Haven’t you given enough? 

Ignis is quiet; waiting, Gladio realizes, for some type of a response. Gladio has been staring, he knows, and he scrambles for something to say, something that will remove the tiny furrow he can spot between Ignis’ brows. 

One question burns more than any other. He swallows; counts to three. It doesn’t go away, and he thinks: maybe. Just like that day in the library, all those years ago, faced with an Ignis who was the same and different than the man in front of him now.   

When his voice finally comes out, it’s rough. 

“So you don’t– I don’t know, you’re not mad about it? Or hold it against him?”

That makes Ignis pause. He turns his head in Gladio’s direction– like somehow he can hear that the question is important, even if the words themselves are simple. That it’s devouring Gladio’s entire body with the strength of it, that it might be one of the most important things he’s ever asked.

“Do you think he deserves those?” Ignis asks, straightforward and simple, and something in Gladio’s chest stutters to a halt.

Because— it’s only six words. Six words, but the more Gladio sits in them, the more he realizes: Ignis is tired. 

No. Not tired. He’s like Gladio: reduced to a bone-deep weariness, soaked through with it like a honey cake. There’s resignation and dejection, disguised as acceptance; still Ignis, underneath it all, but hidden away, drowning, from where Gladio has been trying desperately to grasp it again. 

Oh. Oh, he thinks, staring at him. 

Ignis has gone back to the dishes. Gladio stares at him, unabashed; soaks in the details that stand out like firecrackers, now that his eyes are open. There Ignis is, somehow elegant and regal with hair that hasn’t been washed in a few days, stubble across his jaw; somehow just as beautiful as he was when they were kids, using glitter pens. 

“What about me?”

Ignis’ fingers twitch. It’s a tiny stutter, a blip of movement; and Gladio doesn’t regret speaking, he doesn’t, but he does regret the way he somehow knows, even before Ignis replies, that they both understand what’s coming anyways.

Still, Ignis swallows. Slowly, the cloth picks back up again: round, and round, and round. He says, delicately, “What about you?”

Gladio draws in a breath.

“If I left. Would you hold it against me?”

Ignis stops. The sounds of the dishes falter: no more lapping of water, or the drip of soap from the cloth. It’s like time has frozen, and Ignis with it. 

And the thing is: Gladio knows he should be happy, in this new world. He’s alive, and lucky to be so, in this world where over half the population are no more than memories their loved ones cling to in the night. There’s a roof over his head, and he has a job to do, and people who rely on him. People who care about him: like Iris, and Ignis, and Prompto.

He should be grateful, for all of those things. He should. 

But– he just not. Any of it. When he walks out into the sun, when he feels it on his face, he doesn’t smile. He’s… proud: proud of what Noctis did, and the strength he showed, and how the person he once knew as a whiny brat brought back life to the world.

But not happy. 

And he’s so damn tired.

“Of course I wouldn’t.” 

Ignis’ voice comes out hoarse, and he has to clear his throat after. He half-lifts the other plate; stops before the rag meets it and lets it slide into the soapy water instead with a quiet clink. Gladio’s heart is beating hard in his chest. 

“You…” Ignis starts, and then stops. 

Gladio feels like if he talks, something is going to shatter. But Ignis just squares his shoulders, like he’s preparing for battle. 

When he turns to Gladio fully this time, it’s with the most earnest expression he’s ever seen. 

“You deserve happiness, Gladio,” he says, clear and real and intensely heartfelt, and Gladio’s entire chest lurches. "And if you leave to find it, then I wish you well."

He means it, Gladio realizes. He means it with every part of him. 

Slowly, pieces start fitting together in his head: the exhaustion in Prompto’s eyes, and the way his hair drapes sad and limp across his face. How despite that, his shoulders were strong when he told them, like nothing could sway him from his path. How quickly Ignis had accepted it, too, like he’d been expecting it all along.

And how small Ignis looks now, holding his soapy rag. 

Haven’t you given enough? 

The revelation hits him hard, like being in the dark for hours and hours and unexpectedly turning on a light: Ignis has been waiting for them to leave all along.

Not just Prompto—but Gladio, too. 

He almost laughs. Not because it’s funny -it ain’t— but because… well, now he knows why he was mad, earlier, when Prompto said he wanted to leave. 

Here Gladio was, worrying how to fix it, and it turns out both of them already beat him to the answer.

The thought solidifies what comes next, like a blade forged in iron. He knows what he has to do now, clear as the new daylight that comes each morning.

“Well, then— not Hammerhead,” he decides, all the details coming together, the plan forming in criss-cross lines like one of those boards in the shitty detective shows Noctis and Prompto used to binge on weekends. Ignis nods, swallows; Gladio traces the bob of his adam’s apple as he turns back to the sink. “Somewhere else, far away.”

Listlessly, Ignis picks up a spoon. 

“Where?”

He’s bracing himself, Gladio can tell; he watches him fiddle with the spoon in his hand, just above the soapy water, a subtle sign. The tarnished copper stands out against his skin, the thin handle matching his fingers. 

“No idea,” Gladio admits. And, when Ignis hums, neutral, he gathers his courage and adds, “Come with me?”

Ignis drops the spoon. 

It splashes into the water with a burst of bubbles, a messy cacophony of sound as it scrapes against the metal sink. Gladio doesn’t even notice, and he doesn’t even bother to wonder if Ignis does– because Ignis has turned to him, mouth open, his entire face painted with surprise. 

He looks, for the first time in years, stunned to silence.

Haven’t you given enough? 

The question has been haunting him since the moment Iris spoke it. And maybe Gladio hasn’t; he knows he hasn’t. 

But Ignis? Ignis has. 

The truth of it is like a metal core inside him, screaming for attention. Gladio has done a lot of things in his life, some of them good, some of them downright shitty, but the one thing he’ll never be able to forgive himself for is this: five years into darkness, he had left, and Ignis hadn’t followed. 

“I can’t,” he’d said, because it had been too much– the endless faith, each day bleeding into the next as wounds piled up and the body count did the same. “I can’t keep hoping, Iggy. He’s not coming back.”

“He will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. And you do too.”

“No I don’t! Look outside! Daemons are swarming, and the crystal hasn’t done jack shit, and every day you go out there like it doesn’t matter if you get chewed apart in the process–”

And Ignis had just listened, quiet and calm. Listened, as Gladio lost hope; as he snapped and got sullen, as he decided to part ways. 

He’d never faltered. He’d been loyal, and dedicated. 

He still is now. 

But Gladio left. Not just him, but Prompto, too– Prompto, who hasn’t done a single bad thing in his life. Back then, he’d thought it was too painful to stay as a group, forced to share the reality of their failure. Now, he knows it is too painful to continue alone with the burden of their success. 

He doesn’t want to repeat the same mistake of doing this without Ignis—not this time.

Not when he’s like this. After nearly three decades of friendship, Gladio can see it in Ignis’ eyes, his motions. He can hear it in his voice.

He’s a dead soul walking. They all are.

Gladio has to get him out of here. This place is full of ghosts, sure– but if Ignis is one of them, then he’s the one that Gladio wants to bring along. 

If he’s going, it’s with Ignis by his side, or not at all.

Ignis is still staring at him, open-mouthed.  

“Iggy?” Gladio prompts, and the way his voice shakes takes him off guard. Gladio isn’t a nervous person, as a rule: ain’t exactly got the luxury, when you’re told you’re gonna be the one standing between the future king and death with nothing more than a shield and your body and when the weapon you pick weighs nearly as much as you do. 

But Ignis had done it, the first time they met as children. He does it now, too, standing at the sink with time suspended between them.

Ignis closes his mouth. Parts his lips slightly, then draws in a breath. Gladio braces for rejection, for the arguments he knows are coming: that there’s too many projects to be done; that people are counting on them; that they both agreed to serve until death, and now what are they doing, even thinking about leaving when there’s still so much left to be done. They’re the same ones screaming in his own head. 

But then, so quiet that Gladio almost misses it, Ignis breathes: “Yes.”

Gladio does a double-take. For a second, he swears he heard wrong.

“Wait, yeah?” he says, because– holy shit. Ignis lowers his head, bangs covering his eyes. He turns back to the sink. 

“If you’d have me, yes.”

It’s so simple. So tired. And Gladio realizes: it’s real. He’s saying yes. 

The relief hits him so hard that his legs almost go out. If he’ll have him? He almost balks at the thought. 

“Yes,” he blurts, and Ignis glances up, almost cautious. “Yeah. Alright, let’s do it, then. Let’s go.”

Ignis hands are shaking around the rag, a tremble so small he only notices because nothing else in the room could ever compare.

“You’re certain?”

Gladio looks around at the musty walls and leaking sink, the wood swollen from the early summer heat; at the carefully organized ingredients that Ignis still has to clean up from dinner, and how tight and suffocating it feels, now that he’s gotten an answer. He looks back at Ignis. Ignis, who is waiting quietly, something vulnerable in the line of his shoulders. 

“Never been more certain of anything,” he says, and means every single word.

“Oh,” Prompto says the next morning, when Gladio tells him. 

Ignis is already gone. Given that he probably has to delegate approximately fifty thousand projects with only a single week’s heads up to those involved, Gladio isn’t exactly surprised. He’s been waiting around for Prompto to emerge from his room for a good hour or so, the late morning sunlight already streaming in through the window. It’s more than just a social visit, although Six knows that he’d gladly take any sign of that from Prompto at this point; but he and Ignis talked last night, made plans. 

And Gladio ain’t one to leave something unsaid. Not with something this important.  

“Yeah,” Gladio agrees, because he didn’t exactly expect it either; still doesn’t fully think it’s real, that they’re leaving. And then, when Prompto seems uncertain about what else to say, “We were wondering if you wanted to come with.”

Gladio doesn’t know what he looked like, last night, when Ignis said yes. But he’s pretty sure it matches what happens to Prompto’s face now.

There’s a pause. 

And then, openly confused, Prompto says, “Wait, what?”

(“Gladio,” Ignis had murmured after the dishes were done, and well before the shivery, relieved feeling in Gladio’s bones had faded. They’d agreed: the sooner the better. Or, well, Gladio had said what about next week and Ignis had said alright and that was that. 

But he’d paused, after, looked towards the closed door, where Gladio’s own eyes had been straying throughout the whole conversation. “Prompto…”

Gladio had already been right there with him. “I’ll ask.”) 

And now Prompto is looking at him like the entire thing is out of left field; like somehow there’s a world where Ignis and Gladio would decide to go, work through all the discussions of how to leave and when, and not include him in the equation.

“I know you said you were planning to fly solo, but if you want to come, we want you along,” Gladio tells him, as earnest as he can be. “Iggy and I talked about it.”

Prompto is staring. He opens his mouth. Closes it. 

“But…” he says, and his face is so open: confusion, and doubt, and hesitance. “You said you’re going.”

It’s Gladio’s turn to blink. “So are you.”

“Well, yeah, but– I’m just going, ” Prompto splutters, and when Gladio just stares at him in incomprehension, adds, “you know, like, out of here. I’m not doing anything important, or, or…”

He trails off, shifting. Gladio frowns.

“We don’t know if we are, either,” he points out, because they don’t. They might have talked about when they’re going, but they don’t know where, or why. Ignis hadn’t asked, and Gladio doesn’t have an answer: they just have to get out. He knows that, now. “It ain’t that different, what you’re doing and what we are.”

Prompto’s face is a complicated mix of emotions. 

“I…” he says, quiet and a little torn. He bites his lip, hard. 

He doesn’t continue. 

“We wouldn’t expect you to do anything, or be in charge of shit,” Gladio tries, because he doesn’t want him to feel pressured, not more than he already is. It’s not the right thing to say: Prompto withdraws slightly, so he pivots. “Or you could take photos, give Iggy feedback on whatever magic he does on shitty dried food.” 

He tries to make it a bit teasing. Prompto is staring at his feet with a twisted face, like it holds an answer to a question Gladio isn’t even aware of.

So Gladio tries another angle. “Or not. Look, we’d just like you along with us. Like– like old times. And I know you had other plans, but if you want to play it by ear—”

“I can’t.”

The words are blurted, more than anything. Gladio stares at him; Prompto looks away, drawing in a shaky breath.

His face must be doing something, because when Prompto looks back, his expression shutters off. 

“I can’t,” he repeats, quieter, and it’s like being slapped in the face. 

“Oh,” Gladio says, because all other words have evaporated. Oh.  

“I–” Prompto glances up again. He straightens up, like he’s steeling himself, which doesn’t make any damn sense because it’s just Gladio. “Thanks for the offer. But like I said, I’m gonna go solo.” 

Gladio stares at him. He– fuck. 

He was sure Prompto was gonna say yes.

“Oh,” he echoes, and clears his throat. He doesn’t know what to say after that; he’d already been calculating food for three people, camping gear, backpacks. “Right. Yeah, course. I didn’t mean to– no pressure. Iggy and I just thought we’d ask, is all.”

Prompto’s voice is quiet. “Thanks.”

The smile he throws his way after that is wrong in a way Gladio can’t place. It looks, a small part in the back of Gladio’s mind whispers, absolutely miserable.

Huh.

“You’re sure?” he checks, because… it doesn’t feel right, that he and Ignis are leaving without him right next to them. “You could even just come for part of it, if you wanted. No obligations.”

Say yes, he wants to tell him. He didn’t think he’d even have to, but now that it’s happening, he wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Prompto, c’mon. Say yes. We need you, too. 

But Prompto just smiles at him again. 

“Yeah,” he says, and swallows. When he punches Gladio on the shoulder, it twinges in a way that isn’t physical at all. “Yeah, big guy. I’m sure.” 

———

Ignis goes quiet, when Gladio tells him the news.

Gladio doesn’t blame him. He hasn’t exactly been talkative himself, today; not in the mood, even though he needs to be. He’s managed to fake it for most of the afternoon –not every day that someone like him decides to up and leave, let alone when Ignis and Prompto are doing the same all at once. But if he’s being honest, the only thing that kept him going was the memory of Iris’ delighted voice when he told her he’d be gone for a bit.

Now that it’s evening, though, and with the endless talks, well-wishes, and semi-awkward conversations with Cor over, he can feel the heaviness of the morning pressing in at all sides. 

So he gets it, when Ignis goes still and thoughtful. 

“Hm,” Ignis says eventually. There’s a lot packed into the word; it’s a testament to how little Ignis talks nowadays that Gladio can’t read it all. “He can’t?”

There’s an odd emphasis on the words. Gladio shrugs; remembers Ignis won’t see it. “That’s what he said.” 

“I see.” 

“I think— maybe it was me.” It’s the only thing he can think of. He scared him off, maybe? Or he approached it wrong, made it seem like they’d be putting him to work? “Might be worth you taking a shot.”

Ignis hesitates, then inclines his head. “I can certainly try.” 

He doesn’t sound very hopeful; neither is Gladio. 

He scratches his neck. “I don’t get it. I thought he’d want to come.”

Ignis is quiet for a few moments. 

“While it may not make sense to us, Prompto always has a reason,” he offers eventually, and Gladio tries to turn that over in his head. He’s not wrong. But there’s an odd feeling in his gut, one that’s camped down and stayed since the moment Prompto offered him that smile. I can’t, he’d said, and Gladio doesn’t understand why. 

Why would Prompto’s face look like that, when he was saying something totally different?

Maybe the idea of traveling with them really is that terrible. 

It makes sense, in a twisted way: Gladio’s ghosts are here, sure, but Prompto…well. As long as Prompto knew Noctis, he also knew Gladio and Ignis, too. It was the three of them, first, and he was the fourth one, the last one brought into their little group. No less important or valued, yeah, but…

“Well,” Ignis says eventually, and Gladio jumps. His hands are folded in his lap, perfectly composed, but he sounds even more tired, tonight. “I will do my best. Yet if that is what he wishes, then we can hardly force him.”

Ain’t that the truth. Gladio runs a hand over his face. Maybe it’s dumb to be stuck on it, but he can’t stop thinking about Prompto’s damn face months ago, how he’d been staring down at his phone like he was looking at a ghost. So torn, and raw, and vulnerable: things Prompto never is, all packed into the dimness of that room. 

Something else sneaks into his mind at the memory.

Oh. He turns it over in his head: it’s been a while since he thought about it. 

He wonders. 

“Iggy?” he says, the idea brightening with each second he holds it. Ignis makes an affirming noise, curious at whatever is in his tone; and for the first time today, Gladio smiles. “Before we go. I have a request.”

That earns a tilt of the head. “Oh?”

“Yeah. There’s something I think you can help me take care of.”

The day they leave is almost unfairly beautiful. 

Insomnia in summer has always been a bit too on the warm side for Gladio– nothing like Hammerhead, true, with its unforgiving heat, but hot enough to make his crownsguard uniform stick sometimes during the citadel-sponsored summer festivals. It’d been like that until the long dark: no sun, no warmth. They’d all learned that quick, when sleeping bags that used to be only pulled out in winter were suddenly year-round requirements. 

But today is mild, a picture-perfect scene of bright blue skies dotted with fluffy clouds and broad horizons. Talcott’s truck sputters and bumps under Gladio as they make their way out of the city, a warm breeze brushing the tangle of hair on Prompto’s face like dandelions in the wind. There’s not much, here in the back of the pickup: just him, Ignis, and Prompto, and the few bags that they’ve managed to call their possessions.

“Is that all?” Gladio had asked when he saw the meager pack Prompto brought out of his room the night before: a ragged thing with poorly patched rips, clearly the work of someone who had to learn sewing from trial and error alone.

Prompto had just blushed, deep. “Well– you know. All the important things.”

Which: fair. Possessions were a luxury no one was able to afford once the darkness took over, and none of them ever had many to begin with. 

Even he and Ignis are packing light. Just the essentials: rope, med kit, camping gear, and enough rations to buy them time between one place and the next, wherever they decide to go. They still don’t know: Gladio had asked, three days ago, in the snippets of time he and Ignis had managed to find together.

“So– any thoughts? Preferences?”

And Ignis, steady: “I hardly care, as long as I am with you.”

Simple, straightforward. It’d made Gladio’s breath catch, fondness and sorrow in equal measure. A rush of heat to his face, too, because Ignis said it with the kind of calm confidence that brought back memories of before, when he was the immovable, ever-collected anchor that weathered the group through the ups and downs.

Gladio had lived for sentences like that, back then. Hell, he still lives for them now. 

But thinking of that time opened a whole different can of worms—one full of fire and burned buildings and hospital beds. One of an empty throne, and a bloodstain, and the sounds of Prompto sobbing on the citadel steps.

So he’d pushed it aside. Joked: “Guess we’ll be going to a gas station with some Cup Noodles in stock, then.” 

And Ignis had smiled. A little thing, just at the corners, but there. 

“Paradise, truly.”

Now, it’s Talcott making conversation as the landscape passes by, the smell of gas and dirt filling Gladio’s nose. 

“Cindy’ll be happy to see you three,” he says warmly as they work their way along, navigating through the torn-up road like someone who has seen a lot worse. Probably because he has: most vehicles nowadays are sticking to safe routes between the major cities, and even Cid’s best-trained mechanics aren’t risking going off-route, but Talcott was one of the ones on call for the tougher jobs. If there’s a trail, he’ll drive it. “She says old man Cid has been getting grumpy without his favorite whiskey.”

Gladio snorts. Next to him, Ignis is sitting quietly, face shadowed by the hat; despite the heat, he’s in long sleeves. “Oh yeah?”

“You know the old man: apocalypse or not, he has his standards.”

“Better hope we start those grain silos up again soon then.”

Talcott laughs, turning on his signal as the road starts to smooth out towards Hammerhead. Across from them in the truck, Prompto is fidgeting; he has been all morning, since he found out they’d be taking the same ride.

“More efficient,” Ignis had told him, even though that wasn’t the full reason why, and Prompto had nodded fast and hard.

“Yeah, yeah, of course!”

He hasn’t talked much since then, but Gladio can feel his gaze flicking to him every few minutes. A few times, he’s caught him outright staring at Ignis; but when Prompto noticed, he’d blushed hard and refused to look up for a good hour.

So Gladio busies himself with Talcott, and with updating Ignis on where they are

“Almost there,” he tells him, and Ignis nods. Then, he admits, “Or, I think so.”

To be honest, it’s hard to tell anymore. So little of the old world has managed to survive; the farther Talcott drives them, the more he realizes just how little. Leide was always dry, but now the sand has turned black from daemonic ash, nearly all plants shriveled and mangled. There’s traces of animals, but he hasn’t seen a live one yet; most of them have died or gotten used to coming out at night, and the ones that don’t are strong enough that he’d prefer not to cross paths. 

To the West, Duscae isn’t faring much better. Gladio sees none of the lush green hills on the horizon from their journey so many years ago. All that stretches before him is a dull, sickly brown, broken by scarred trees and ravaged roads.

Maybe the light is back, but it’s gonna take a long time for true life to return with it. Gods know how many species have gone extinct; how many are endangered, and about it be.

Ignis probably actually knows. But for his part, Gladio tries not to think about it too much.

“You excited to see Cindy?” he asks Prompto, who jumps at being addressed. 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he says quickly. He rubs the back of his neck. “Always good.”

At his side, Ignis tilts his head just slightly; a bump in the road sends all of them jostling before Gladio can try and read into it. 

“You’re sure you don’t wanna come?” he checks again instead, trying to make it sound a little like a joke. According to Ignis, Prompto hadn’t seemed interested when he offered either (and that’d been a lengthy conversation, based on how long the door had stayed shut when Ignis followed him into their room); but you never know. “Plenty of space in this pack for chocobo greens.”

Prompto gives him a half-hearted smile. “I’m good, buddy.”

Well, alright then. Gladio crosses his arms and leans back against the makeshift seat of the pickup. 

The rest of the drive is silent, save for the crackle of music coming from Talcott’s radio.

“We’re here!” Talcott announces a short time later, and sure enough, seconds after Hammerhead gas station swerves into view on the horizon. 

Given the long dark, it’s amazing how much of the place has stayed the same: the parking lot with the (now-tilted) neon Hammerhead sign sticking up in the air like a windmill; the worn-down diner, specials blazing in the window in bright red and yellow; even the garage with it’s once-shiny steel roof, battered by time and the elements. 

Cindy is already out and waving at them as they approach, a big grin on her face.

“If it ain’t my three favorite boys!” she calls, the accent so familiar that Gladio could pick it out of a crowd of thousands. There’s grease smeared across her face, her cut-off shorts covered in the stuff—she puts her hands on her hips as Talcott slows down and parks right next to her, a playful look in her eyes. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say y’all are here to cause trouble!”

Prompto perks up, Ignis straightening up as well. 

“No trouble here, unless you count the cargo,” Talcott promises, and Cindy laughs, slapping the back of the car.

“Sure, sure! Hey there boys!”

Gladio hops out of the back and stretches his arms over his head with a grunt. “Heya Cindy.” 

She wolf whistles at him. “Now ain’t I a lucky girl. Welcome back!”

“Happy to be back,” Ignis says smoothly, gripping the edge of the car as he gets out. Gladio can’t tell if he means it or not– he’s distracted by Prompto scrambling out as well, stuttering out an apology to Talcott as they almost collide on the side. 

Before he can get very far, Cindy has come up and wrapped him in a hug.

“Hey Blondie,” she says warmly, and Gladio watches, slightly fascinated, as Prompto hugs her back. He’s–not blushing?

“Hey, Cindy.” 

“How you holding up?” She pinches his cheek, and this time, the faintest pink crosses Prompto’s face. 

“Good! Um, yeah, good. You?”

“Same old, same old,” she chirps, and Gladio thinks she’s the only person on Eos who can somehow make that sound positive. She gives him a long look-over, then tuts. “Good golly, what do they feed you in Insomnia, grass? You’re like a stick!”

Prompto goes bright red. “I– that’s–” 

His eyes flick to Ignis, then to Gladio, something like panic on his face; Gladio swings around and looks at the road, trying to pretend he didn’t notice. 

“Need help?” Talcott is asking Ignis, halfway around the back as Ignis carefully moves his bags from where he was seated. He offers it with a freedom Gladio has never dared to have, not since that day in Cartanica; Ignis shakes his head, his hat rippling with the motion.

“No need.”

“Oh, c’mon Mr. Scientia, let me feel useful for once–”

Gladio can’t help but snort as he and Ignis start a silent battle of wills– one that, Gladio knows, Ignis will most definitely win. The wind blows, some grey dust floating into his eyes and mouth; he scrubs it away with a huff. The sun is beating down on them, and he takes a deep breath in, lets his lungs take in the dryness in the air. 

Damn, he thinks, looking around. They’re really here. 

He’s passed through before, of course, during the long dark and the last three months. But it feels–different, now. 

Final.

Cindy is still nagging Prompto. “If you’re staying in that room I worked up for ya like old times, then you better expect some good ol’ fries and jambalaya, Takka’s gonna throw a fit if you try to turn down his specials—”

Prompto is red as a lobster. Gladio takes pity on him. 

“Oi, Cindy, your old man around?” he calls, and Cindy turns to him, grin still on her face. Behind her, Prompto backs up a few steps, an open relief in his expression like he just narrowly dodged an oncoming freight train. 

“Nappin’,” she says, and when Gladio raises his eyebrows, she rolls her eyes. “I know. Times really are a-changing, aren’t they?”

That’s for sure. Gladio didn’t know Cid could nap.

“All the whiskey blues,” Talcott inserts wryly, and Cindy laughs. 

“You’re damn straight.” She looks between all of them, running a hand through her hair; Gladio thinks she sees her eyes linger on Prompto, before settling back on Gladio and Ignis. “Sure he’d be pleased to see ya when he wakes up, though. I know Prompto here’s stayin’, but y’all interested in hunkering down for the night? Plenty o’ room.”

Gladio hesitates. 

They could, is the thing. His and Ignis' single plan right now is that they’ll start here at Hammerhead, pick a direction, and see where the roads take them. There’s no timetable, no schedule. He’s honestly been so surprised that Ignis has been alright with that – Ignis, who monitors things down to the minute, and what did it mean, if he wasn’t doing that, too– that he hasn’t thought through anything past that point.

But…

He glances at Ignis, who is standing quietly under the shadow of the awning with his bag slung over his shoulder; then to Prompto who, he notices immediately, is fidgeting up a storm again.

Uh. 

“Iggy?” he checks, because he’s not making decisions on his own, not anymore, and Ignis clears his throat delicately.

“I’m afraid we have some miles to make, should we wish to reach the next haven before sunset.”

Relief pools in Gladio– so he’s not the only one who doesn’t want to drag this out, then. By Cindy, Prompto bites his lip. 

“Well more power to ya then,” Cindy says cheerfully, no questions at all, and Gladio has never been more thankful for her happy-go-lucky attitude in his life. She turns to Prompto. “How about we get you settled, huh? Think I still have that old bedspread of yours…”

As she speaks, Talcott comes over and claps Gladio on the shoulder. 

“You take care of yourself, alright?” he says, and Gladio feels an odd swell of pride, seeing him stand tall and confident. Feels like just yesterday he was a bright-eyed boy in a hotel, gossiping about hidden waterfalls. 

“You too, kid. No reckless driving, yeah?”

“But that’s my favorite kind,” Talcott says without missing a beat, and when Gladio ruffles his hair in retaliation, he brightens. “Oh, and Iris told me to remind you that if you don’t call at least once a week, she’ll personally take out a bounty on you with HQ.”

Gladio rolls his eyes. Course she did. “Yeah, yeah. Tell her she can try.”

“Hey now big guy, careful or I just might.”

He snorts, keeping half his attention on Prompto. Can’t let him sneak away just yet. “It’s your life, not mine.”

Talcott laughs. Ignis has inched out of the awning, settling in the shaded part of the car next to Gladio’s side instead. Briefly, Gladio wonders if there’s anyone in Insomnia keeping an eye out for his calls, too. He doesn’t know. 

They don’t talk about things like that, not anymore.

“Any last messages you want me to take care of?” Talcott asks him, because he’s just a good kid like that, and Ignis shakes his head. 

“Monica and Dustin have seen to the finer details.” He pauses, then adds, “Thank you, Talcott. For the ride, and your continued assistance.”

Talcott grins, easy. “You know I had just as much fun as you did. Next time you decide to go digging, you better give me a call.”

Gladio doesn’t know if it’s the sun, or if it’s just the pure benefit of Talcott’s presence, but he can’t help but feel that something in Ignis’ face is softer when he replies, “Of course.”

“Alrighty boys, c’ya later!” 

They turn--Cindy has slung Prompto’s bag over her shoulder, the worn brown a contrast against the bright yellow of her shirt as she waves at them. Prompto is hovering next to her; Gladio watches, torn between amusement and a low ache, as she whispers something in his ear, nudging him in their direction before turning around and heading into the station.

Gladio glances at Ignis. 

“You got the thing?” he mutters under his breath, and Ignis inclines his head. Good. 

Talcott looks between them, openly bemused. 

“Well, that’s my cue to go, then,” he says, as Prompto seems to waver between following Cindy or standing out in the sun without fully meeting their eyes.

It’s Gladio’s turn to clap Talcott on the shoulder.“You got it.”

He doesn’t say: call if you need anything. He doesn’t say: you run into a problem, and we’ll come running. 

He can’t promise that anymore, not for a bit. So instead, he ends it at that.

Talcott grins. He lays a hand, careful and slow, on Ignis’ arm; says, “Bye, Mr. Scientia!”, like Ignis hasn’t told him no less than a dozen times to just address him by his first name. Then he’s back in the car, and the car is pulling out, nothing but gas and residual diesel trailing behind him as he putters contentedly out of sight.

And just Gladio, Ignis, and Prompto are left, standing in the slowly building heat of the morning. 

Gladio is just getting up the resolve to step forward when, to his immense surprise, Prompto gets there first. 

He walks slowly— like a skittish animal, Gladio thinks, not for the first time. The stray gravel crunches under his hiking boots as he inches towards them, pausing just out of arm’s reach. 

“So,” he says, and draws out the word a little, fiddling at the dirt with his shoe. Gladio watches him swallow, the sun slanting across his face. “This is it, I guess.”

“Indeed,” Ignis murmurs, and Gladio respects it, how calm he sounds. Prompto is looking nervously between them, but Ignis continues on anyways, like he doesn’t notice, even though Gladio knows he must, somehow. “It sounds as if you’ll be staying here for some time?”

Prompto rubs the back of his head, glancing away. “Yeah. Cindy offered to put me up, so…”

He doesn’t seem sure what else to say. Truthfully, neither does Gladio.

(Moments before, the idea of final was so easy. Now, it’s eating at him. How can that be?)

“Give the old man hell for us then,” Gladio makes himself get out, because no way is he gonna let Prompto’s last memory of them for a while be him all silent and brooding. “I’ll never live it down if he kicks one of our asses in poker again.”

Prompto’s mouth tilts upward, just a little. “Hey, you know I’ll do my best.”

“Gotta do more than that. Last time, your best got us 1000 gil in debt.”

“Hey!” Prompto protests, but he’s smiling for real now. “That’s not my fault! You were the one who told me my hand was, and I quote, totally gonna get jackpot. ”

Gladio crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Not how I remember it.” 

Prompto rolls his eyes. “Whatever!”

Gladio gives him his best grin in return, and it feels so close to how it used to be; them, joking around. “Make sure Cindy doesn’t sweep you up in her car business, either,” he warns, nodding towards the grease-covered pullout. “Gotta keep all your limbs on your body, alright? No dropping wrenches on your toes, or setting fire to a gas can.”

What he really means is: stay safe. Stay safe and happy, please. 

He hopes Prompto can hear it. 

Maybe he does; maybe he doesn’t. But Prompto does blush, a little, and shift.

“You got it, boss,” he says, and Gladio tries to capture the picture of him in his head: tired and a little pink on the ears. Here, in this place where maybe, he’ll find what he’s looking for. 

With that, he’s out of things to say. Prompto’s smile falters; he glances at Ignis.

“Um– well, then,” he starts, and draws in a breath. “I guess–” 

He stops. Not because he means to, Gladio is sure. Hell, not even because he’s nervous, and falling back into the habit he’s had lately, where he starts a sentence and then ends it milliseconds later.

Nah. 

It’s because as soon as he opens his mouth, Ignis steps forward and hugs him.

The motion is quick; one moment Ignis is next to him, and then the next he has Prompto is a soft, loose grip. It’s a gentle thing, too–like he’s holding onto a bird that might flush at any moment, even as Prompto jerks in surprise and Gladio feels his own eyes go huge. 

Ignis murmurs, very soft: “Take care, Prompto.” 

Prompto is frozen. Absolutely still, a mix of wonder and shock plain to see on his face, and Gladio is sure he’s the same, because he remembers the exact time he last saw Ignis hug someone–the last time he saw Ignis hug Prompto, and they’re one and the same: Zegnautus Keep. 

Deep in the twisted heart of that cold metal place, where everything had been wrong, where they found Prompto chained to a wall covered in bruises, half-lucid and starving as Ardyn’s voice echoed around them like a never-ending curse. He remembers how Noctis had been shaking, as they undid the shackles; his own fury making Gladio do the same, something ugly and vicious rearing its head and begging for flesh and bone to tear into, because how could anyone do this, how could they.

“I’m okay,” Prompto had insisted, and he hadn’t been, not at all. But he’d pulled his chapped, raw lips into a smile. “I’m fine, guys. You’re here now.”

Noctis had almost cried, at that, holding carefully onto his arm so he didn't try to get up. Gladio had wanted to punch a wall; punch anything, because what the fuck was he talking about, fine? 

But it had been Ignis, singed and battle-worn, with a flint in his mouth that Gladio has only seen once since, who acted. 

No words. He’d just kneeled, and Prompto’s eyes had gone huge, flinching back like he’d thought he would be hit– and Ignis had hugged him with a fierceness that wasn’t matched until ten years later at a campfire, a king in his arms. 

He’d hugged him, and hugged him, and hugged him, right there on the bloodstained floor, the red soaking into his clothes. Hugged him, as Prompto went still and startled; hugged him, as they pulled him to his feet, cradled him in the way he used to when Noctis was ten and woke up screaming from nightmares. 

(Gladio remembers a lot of things from that time, but none of them more than this: it had taken Ignis a long, long time to let go.)

Prompto had the same look on his face then as he does now: like a kicked puppy offered its first sign of open affection. As if he’s startled, that hands could do something more than hurt and tear, and doesn’t know why those hands have chosen him.

“You will be missed,” Ignis tells him, still holding him tight. Prompto’s hands are half-raised, like he doesn’t know what to do; Ignis doesn’t let go. “Take care of yourself.”

It’s the most open he’s heard Ignis’ voice since that night by the campfire. 

Prompto is shaking, just a little. Slowly, his hands come up. They hesitate– once, twice, a jerk of uncertainty– and then Prompto is hugging him back, fingers tight in his shirt.

“‘Course, Iggy,” he croaks, and Gladio pretends not to hear the way it cracks on Ignis’ name. “You know I will.”

Ignis pulls back, just slightly. He can’t pin people with looks, not anymore, but even Gladio feels rooted in place when he says, intense and somehow tender all at once, “I will hold you to it.”

Prompto still seems stunned to have been hugged in the first place. When Ignis shifts again, he startles; his hands unwind quickly from his shirt, and he opens his mouth (to apologize, Gladio is sure), but before he can do so much as take a step back, Ignis has taken his hands.

He puts something in them, black and sleek. 

Prompto blinks. He glances down.

He freezes.

The camera now resting in his hands is one Gladio recognizes well. It’d be hard not to, when he spent years seeing it tucked beside Prompto’s sleeping bag, on bedside tables, hanging around his neck when it probably shouldn’t have been. A gift when he was eighteen, courtesy of Noctis, and Prompto had cried for thirty minutes straight when he unwrapped it, a slice of Ignis’ perfectly made cake half-eaten in front of him. 

Thanks to Ignis’ genius, it looks just as beautiful as it did that day.

“Gladio noticed it underwent some damage, during the fight,” Ignis informs Prompto, who is staring down at the device like it’s a ghost, or maybe the live birth of a baby chocobo. Or a live bomb– Gladio can’t tell, honestly. “I hope it is no trouble, that we borrowed it for a time.”

There’s a delicate truth hiding behind the words. Gladio seriously doubts Prompto noticed it was gone in the first place; and he knows Ignis must, too, because it was way too easy to take. After he’d pitched the idea and gone to look —Ignis keeping watch by the door in case Prompto unexpectedly came home—the camera had still been buried under the pile of clothes Prompto shoved it into those first three weeks, out of sight and out of mind. 

From the look on Prompto’s face now, Gladio is pretty sure he intended for it to stay there. 

“We made sure to take good care of it,” he adds, just in case Prompto has gone comatose because he’s pissed, or something. “SD card was missing, but we figured you had it.”

Prompto doesn’t reply for a good fifteen seconds. Gladio is just at the stage of wondering if they truly, royally fucked up somehow (or if he did get rid of the SD card, and if that’s the case, Gladio doesn’t know what the hell they’re gonna do, because that’s the only thought that’s kept him sane whenever he thinks about how sad the broken thing had looked, there in the dimness) when, like a statue coming back to life, Prompto looks back up. 

His expression is so devastatingly awed that all the air gets sucked out of Gladio’s body.

“You… repaired it?” he whispers, staring at the both of them, and there’s so much earnest, dumbfounded amazement in there that it’s a physical ache, all the way down to Gladio’s core. 

It takes him a second to swallow it down. 

“Iggy knew a person who knew a person,” he explains, amazed that he can get the words out without it sounding weird, and when Prompto swallows loudly and looks at Ignis, something helpless and raw in his eyes, Ignis inclines his head.

“Monica’s sister specializes in equipment repair, and agreed to restore the lens. I was unable to check the quality of the work, but she assured me it was more than suitable.” Ignis pauses, then adds, “I have acquired her contact information, if not.”

It’s such an Ignis thing to say that Gladio almost laughs. Coming off the end of the world, and he keeps receipts. 

“I…” Prompto’s voice is hoarse. He looks at the camera, then at them. “It…”

This time, he’s clearly, truly speechless. 

“Hey,” Gladio says, and slowly, watching carefully in case he shows signs of being spooked, reaches out and claps him on the shoulder. To his relief, Prompto doesn’t flinch away; just stares at him, hands still gripping the hard plastic like a lifeline. “Wasn’t a problem. What kind of friends would we be if we let you go without a housewarming gift? Iggy’s reputation would be ruined.”

Gladio must not be the only one getting emotional, because Ignis’ lips actually quirk in amusement.

“Indeed,” he agrees. 

There’s a wobble to Prompto’s mouth. He sniffs –poorly tries to hide it– and looks down at his feet. 

“Geeze, guys,” he manages after a moment, and his voice is distinctly wet. “I don’t know what to say.”

Gladio squeezes his shoulder– not too hard, but present. “Then don’t worry about it, blondie. If you really wanna thank us, promise to use it sooner rather than later, yeah?”

Prompto blinks, startled. Next to Gladio, Ignis hums once. 

“Perhaps one day,” he inserts, “the opportunity will arise for a truly spectacular shot.” 

Well, damn, Gladio thinks, watching the way Prompto’s next breath shivers into him. Looks like Ignis hasn’t lost his way with words after all.

In truth, Gladio doesn’t know why Prompto wanted to leave his camera behind. In the end, it’s exactly none of his business. But Ignis has the right idea: one day, maybe Prompto will take photos again. More than that— Gladio wants him to take every damn photo his heart desires, even if it’s boring, or not arranged right, or any bullshit excuse that could pop up to stop him. 

Even if it’s far, far away, years and years from now, if he just keeps this damn camera safe, he has the option. 

And if not– then at the very least, maybe he’ll know that there are two people thinking of him, even if they aren’t in frame.

“Right,” Prompto croaks, and Gladio withdraws his hand, looks away as he runs his sleeve across his eyes just once, messy and fast. “Yeah. You got it.”

“Good.”

They wait politely while Prompto wipes his face again; while he takes a deep breath. When he looks back up, there’s nothing guarded in his expression: just pure, genuine gratitude.

“Thanks, guys,” he says, and it’s like he’s twenty again, so earnestly well-meaning that it’s almost impossible to believe. 

Gladio steels himself. Alright. This is it, then. 

“See you later,” Gladio promises, because like hell this is gonna be the last time he ever sees him. No one is gonna let Prompto disappear; not him, and not Iris or Cindy, and, Gladio thinks, looking at the way Ignis is focused on him, unwavering and intense, definitely not Ignis. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Prompto shifts, his violet blue eyes shining in the sun. “Yeah. You too.” 

“Stay safe,” Ignis orders gently, and he nods.

“Yeah.”

“And should you need anything, call. You know we would come.”

They would, is the thing. They could be halfway across Eos and Gladio would trek back in a heartbeat. Hell, Prompto could say it now, and Gladio doesn’t think they’d leave. 

Another jerky nod. “Y-yeah. I will,” Prompto promises, and to Gladio’s relief, he sounds like he actually means it this time. He’s holding the camera carefully, cradled to his chest, and for a moment, he seems to hesitate. 

Then he draws in a deep breath. 

“Right,” he repeats, and straightens himself. “Well– bye.”

Ignis’ voice is very quiet. “Goodbye, Prompto.”

Gladio raises a hand. “Cya, Blondie.”

There’s a moment, maybe, where Gladio thinks there might be more. But Prompto just sniffs again, and jerkily turns on his heel, and then all Gladio sees is his back, making its way toward the garage Cindy disappeared into, camera still held carefully in his hands.

They stand there for a moment, watching. 

It’s only after he’s out of view, nothing but the drained desert and haze in the air to keep them company, that Gladio’s throat eases up enough to speak.

“Think we did okay?”

Ignis is quiet for a moment. “I believe so,” he says eventually, and Gladio turns to look at him. Ignis stands like he always does: straight-backed, the kind of posture that comes from growing up with eyes on you at all times. The heat has made some of his hair stick to his forehead underneath his hat, and Gladio’s eyes trace the bead of sweat that slides quietly down his neck, the pale expanse of his throat.

He still looks tired. But standing here, no one else in sight, he looks the first shade of alive, too.

Alive, and determined.

“Ready?” Gladio asks, because Prompto is right— no time like the present. Ignis inclines his head.

“Lead the way.”

Alright then. Gladio slings his pack more securely over his shoulder, lets the familiar click and clang of metal ground him as he turns away from the Hammerhead sign and to the road ahead. He surveys the devastated land, and repeats in his head: alright. 

“What about this way?” he says, scraping his foot on the ground so Ignis knows what direction he’s talking about, one that follows the roadside but keeps them within the shelter of the mountains too. Ignis hums.

“As good as any other.”

Well– Gladio’ll give him that.

“As good as any other,” he agrees, and they start to walk.

———

They make it less than ten minutes before something strange happens. 

It’s quiet, because they’ve both used up their talking allowance of the month saying goodbye to Prompto. Gladio expects this will be the usual, for a while; maybe the city isn’t towering above them anymore, and he can breathe easier than he did twelve hours ago, but all their problems aren’t gonna be solved with a few thousand steps. He and Ignis had gone on a few camping trips when they were younger anyways, and there’d been a companionable silence between them, then, too. If Gladio closes his eyes, he can almost pretend the silence looming over them now is the same. 

Besides: no point in dwelling in it. Even if he had the energy, like hell he’s gonna manage to get Ignis to agree to come with him and then ruin it by talking his ear off, anyways.

That’s why he’s not expecting to hear much, he reassures himself— not outside of the occasional car or plant or animal that managed to survive the almost-end of the world. They’re probably the only living thing for miles, if he doesn’t count Hammerhead; it should be an uneventful day until sundown. 

So when a prickle starts on the back of his neck, it ain’t exactly easy to ignore.

He knows prickles. Prickles means his body has caught onto something his brain hasn’t yet, like an MT waiting around a corner, or Iris trying to sneak into his room to shave his beard as a prank. 

(“Trust your instincts,” his dad used to say. “Listen: an inclination can be the difference between life and death, and not just for you. You willing to risk ignoring it?”)

He stops. 

“Iggy,” he says quietly, but Ignis has already paused from where he was walking in front of him, head tilted his way.

“What is it?”

His tone is low and cautious, which Gladio appreciates, because he doesn’t know. His hand drifts towards his sword out of habit, and his silence must be enough of an answer, because Ignis stiffens, his own hand sliding into his pocket where Gladio knows four needle-sharp, perfectly balanced daggers lie waiting.

They hold, tucked into the side of the mountain. And then, finally, his ears pick it up.

Patpatpatpatpatpatpat– behind them, right around the curve. Then, as it gets closer, thump thump thump thump: the sound of something running. 

Fast. 

Without thinking, he whirls to face it, positioning himself between Ignis and the threat. 

“Get ready!” he warns, because that isn’t a car, and it sure as hell doesn’t sound like something small enough to make for dinner. Ignis is already in position, sliding next to him like it’s nothing, entire body taught. Gladio raises his sword in front of him, a defensive wall–

“Wait!”

Ignis’ entire body jerks. Gladio’s brain goes blank. 

“Wait, please!! Gladio, Iggy, can you hear–”

And what bursts around the corner a second after the frantic call isn’t a rabies-infested animal, or some lucky monster that was spared by the light, or anything dangerous at all.

It's someone familiar, instead. 

“Wait!” Prompto shouts, louder than Gladio has ever heard him, and he has a split second to wonder what the hell is going on before they meet eyes and, with a yelp and a panicked, high-pitched, “Oh shit!!” Prompto crashes right into them.

There’s a scramble of limbs and dust and dirt as they collide. Ignis manages to dodge both of them as they stagger, but Gladio isn’t so lucky– Promoto hits him full force, top sprinting speed like he was competing in a godsdamn marathon, and it’s only his massive size difference over Prompto that keeps him standing at all. 

There’s a crack, and two yelps of pain. 

“OOF!”

“Ow, oh fuck,” and that’s Prompto’s voice, still, high-pitched, “Oh fuck, oh shit, I’m so sorry, don’t leave–”

Gladio coughs through the ash-laden dust, frantically waving it away as he looks for Prompto. It takes him a second to realize that while he might not have fallen over, Prompto definitely did; when he squints down, there he is, wide-eyed and panting hard. 

He manages, completely thrown: “Prompto?”

Prompto is trying to talk, each word punctuated by a gasp. “Sorry — I just — I thought– whew, I– hold on.” He brings his knees up to his chest, still desperately sucking in air, and puts his forehead against them. “This– one sec– guys–”

His voice is nothing more than a wheeze. For the first time, Gladio realizes that he’s curled protectively around his bag from earlier. The sight of it slots something into place in Gladio’s head– like a big, blaring sign that says, Hey, maybe something is happening, so you should probably take a second to look closer. 

So he does. Prompto is scraped from where he fell, on the elbows and sides of his arms, which Gladio realizes now was him redirecting the hit so his body took it instead of the bag. When Gladio leans down to try and give him a hand up, he spots something— a thin line of red dripping onto his lips from his nose.

Blood.

All other thoughts fly out the window.

“Holy shit, Prompto, how fast were you running?”

“What is going on?” Ignis asks at the same time, sounding absolutely flabbergasted.

“Just – had to– catch up,” Prompto rasps, clearly definitely not in a position where he should be doing anything but breathing, and waves away the hand Gladio offers him. Staring at the flush on his face, Gladio thinks that’s actually a smart move; dude was running like a courel. “One– second– haa– sorry–”

Ignis has clearly lost his patience for waiting. He navigates his way over to them –Prompto’s wheezing helps, Gladio is sure– and kneels, hands reaching forward. When he accidentally brushes Prompto’s face, clearly expecting him in a different position, he pauses.

“Are you bleeding?” he demands, the first sliver of alarm making its way into his voice, and Prompto jolts, hand flying up to his nose.

“Huh? No!”

“He is,” Gladio says, and kneels down with Ignis in the dirt. At closer look, his nose is swollen too, and Gladio shakes his head. “Damn, Prom, why the hurry?”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, really. Maybe: Cindy forgot to give you all something and I was sent as the unfortunate delivery boy. Or Cid woke up from a nap and was so terrifying without his whiskey that I felt the need to find immediate social backup so I wouldn’t get my ass handed to me in card games as retribution. Hell, he’d even take Turns out that the camera wasn’t repaired right, after all, and I really really need that receipt Ignis kept because everything Ignis does has a purpose and we were both fools for doubting him.

What he doesn’t expect is this:

“I want to come with you!”

Gladio and Ignis both go still. 

“I– I want to come with you,” Prompto repeats, and he’s still dragging in ragged breaths, in, out, in, out. There’s a desperation in his eyes, one Gladio didn’t even spot until now; his stomach lurches when he realizes they’re red rimmed and puffy, too, like he’s been crying hard. “I– I know I said I didn’t, but I do, and maybe you don’t want me to anymore and if you do I understand but–”

“Prompto–”

“–I’m hoping the chance is still there, and if there’s something I need to do, I can, I’ll do it–”

“Prompto, breathe,” Ignis orders, his other hand already digging through their packs for the cold compress that Gladio always has on hand when packing, and Prompto sucks in a breath.

Then he starts talking again.

“I swear I won’t get in the way,” he promises, almost frantic. Blood drips into his mouth, and Gladio scowls, reaching out and wiping it off with his thumb. Prompto doesn’t even seem to notice; his next words almost blend together, like he has to get it all out before it’s too late. “And I’ll go wherever you want, I don’t care, it doesn’t matter to me. And I know I don’t have the right gear for it but I can tough it out, I can take it, I’ll sleep on the rocks if I have to–”

“Prompto.”

“I–” Prompto tries, and jolts when Ignis reaches out and presses the cold pack to his nose. That, out of everything, is what seems to snap Prompto out of his panic; he looks down at the ice pack, cross-eyed, then to Ignis, then to Gladio.

There’s a blip of silence. 

“Calm down,” Gladio tells him, once he’s sure he’s not going to start blabbering again, because holy shit, Prompto just said more words in the last fifteen seconds than he has in three straight months. Ignis is busy feeling along the bridge of his nose, and he must hit something, because the next moment Prompto is flinching back with a wince. 

“Ow! Ow, Iggy!”

Ignis’ mouth is thin. “As I suspected. Broken.”

Gladio closes his eyes. Of course. 

“What?!” Prompto yelps, and Gladio grabs his arm and yanks him down before he can jump to his feet. He’s had enough running today. “No way! It was just– a small crash.”

Ignis’ face pinches, just slightly. “What I heard was not small.”

“It sounded worse than it was!” Prompto insists, and when Ignis doesn’t let him drop the ice pack, turns to Gladio. “Back me up! I’m fine, I’m totally fine!”

As he speaks, a bit more blood slides down his lip and onto Ignis’ finger. His nose is turning black and blue. Gladio sighs. 

“Sorry, but I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

Prompto opens his mouth to retort, but Ignis cuts him off.

“Can you check if he has a concussion?”

“On it.”

“I’m okay!” Prompto squeaks, as Gladio carefully grabs his chin and checks his eyes. When Gladio raises a finger and moves it, his eyes track it fine— and Gladio shouldn’t be as relieved about that as he is, but he’ll take it. “Really! I’m good!”

His voice is starting to go nasally from the swelling. Ignis stands. 

“We’ll need to go back to Hammerhead,” he declares, and Gladio ain’t gonna lie– something about Ignis taking charge, ordering them around like he used to, settles something inside him, something that yanked itself out of place the moment he heard Prompto’s shout. “Procure another ice pack, and some pain killers.”

His tone leaves no room for argument. 

Prompto tries anyways. 

“Wait,” he whispers, as Ignis makes his way back over to the packs he and Gladio both dropped during the collision. “Guys, hold on.”

“I am not leaving you out here without medical attention,” Ignis tells him, some of the patience ebbing from his voice, and Prompto bites his bloody lip, eyes flicking rapidly between them. “We are going.”

“But–”

“You wanna come with us or not?” Gladio asks him, exasperated, but if he’s not exasperated then something else is going to come through in his voice, something embarrassing and too messy and almost shaky with his own relief, and Prompto jerks, eyes widening. When he stares, clearly uncertain, Gladio adds, “You know, on the trip? Because if you do, then you better let Iggy do his thing.”

He braces himself.

Prompto’s eyes are wide as saucers. He looks at Ignis.

Then at Gladio.

Then back at Ignis, then back to him again. 

“I,” he whispers, and it’s so soft and cautious and hopeful. And then, awestruck: “Wait. I— you’ll really let me?” 

And he sounds– fuck, it makes Gladio pissed to even think how he sounds, like he’s genuinely surprised. Not at him, but at the damn world. Let me. Like after all that, all the times they’d asked, he really thought he’d have to beg to be brought along, that being told no was a true possibility. 

And he still ran after you anyways, his mind whispers, and it’s so much that Gladio doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Course,” he settles with, and Ignis says, “Indeed,” and the most amazing thing happens. 

A beautiful, sunshine-bright smile breaks out across Prompto’s face.

“Oh,” he breathes. 

It’s so pure, so chock-full of relief, that all Gladio can do is stare at him. It’s a whole body experience, Prompto’s smile. His eyes brighten, and his cheeks flush, and it’s like the world itself just gains a bit of color. Cheesy as fuck, Gladio knows, but here Prompto is, with a broken nose, and scrapes, and no doubt having just run the fastest he’s ever run in his life, and instead of grimacing in pain he’s smiling like the best thing in the world just happened to him.

Gladio doesn’t have a damn clue what to do with it. 

“Promto,” Ignis says, and Prompto looks his way, the goofy smile still on his face. He’s shivering, just a little, and Ignis must know somehow, because his face —which had been tight with taking control over the logistics of safety— softens. “Do you believe you can walk?” 

Prompto instantly starts to scramble to his feet, bag still held carefully in his arms.

“Yeah!” he gushes, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. “Yeah, I’m good, I got it–” and he opens his mouth to say more, and Gladio can see it on his lips, ready to fall out: thank you. Thank you so much, thanks for letting me come along. 

Thank you, covered in blood and dirt. 

Nope, Gladio decides. Too much. He is going to examine that not today. Maybe not ever. Instead, he grabs Prompto’s hand and yanks him up before he can finish talking; Prompto makes a startled noise, but it does the job.

“Steady,” Gladio cautions him, and Prompto is still beaming.

“Thanks!”

And Gladio, meaning every word of it, says, “No problem, Prom.”

“Try to keep the ice pack still,” Ignis cautions, and Prompto does, blinking like he just woke up from a dream.

“Okay!” 

Carefully, Gladio lets him go. Prompto hesitates (still shy, still swinging his head between them like he can’t believe it), before he inches forward. Within seconds, trying to help Ignis pick up one of the small vials of herbs that got displaced in the collision, talking up a storm.

“Here, Iggy, where does this go, do you want it in the front pocket or back, I can—” 

Ignis waits patiently as he goes through a full offer of every pocket on his bag. “Be careful, Prompto. Your ice pack.”

“Oh! Oh yeah, sorry—”

There’s a warm feeling in Gladio’s chest as he picks up his own bag again, as he watches them. It’s something that is caused by more than just the sun; and it’s been so long since he’s felt it, felt even a semblance of it, that it takes him a moment to place.

For the first time in months, he feels like he can breathe.

“I really don’t need anything,” Prompto is trying to convince Ignis, who has the expression of someone who is being told something that he fully plans to ignore later. Prompto’s face has already turned pink from the sun, and the edges of his ears are bright red, sure to move onto the peeling stage soon. A look at Ignis shows the small sliver of skin exposed at his wrist has turned red too, protesting the skies above. “Really, I’m good, you don’t need to worry about me!”

Gladio can’t help it— he laughs. 

The noise draws their attention; Ignis’ head shoots to him, and Prompto whirls around, eyes wide. 

“I don’t know, Prompto,” he says, and when Ignis’ and Prompto’s expressions both turn their own kind of puzzled, readjusts the pack on his back. He grins, and this time, it’s real. “Maybe we got the essentials, but something tells me we’re going to need to find a lot more sunscreen.”

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.