#choqueuebo

It was almost evening by the time the carriage drew to a halt at long last. Once the door was opened for him, Ignis hobbled down the steps on unsteady feet and sucked in lungful of fresh air. It helped him, somewhat; the nausea began to subside, the bitter taste fading from the back of his throat.

Other than his driver, the only person awaiting him was a young woman in an apron, her dark hair poorly pinned back such that it hung loose about her face.. Surely she couldn’t be the only one here to receive him — a maid of some sort. The housekeeper’s correspondence had implied that this family was of considerable means.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ the woman said, peering up at him expectantly.

Who was she waiting for, if she wasn’t here to receive him? Ignis gave an exasperated sigh and shot his driver a long-suffering glance; the man merely shrugged his shoulders and moved past him to retrieve his luggage.

‘I’m expected,’ Ignis said briskly.

The girl gave him a bemused look, raising her eyebrows almost comically, and she looked as if she might have questioned him on it had her attention not been drawn elsewhere.

Ignis followed the direction of her gaze to a young man, tall and bronzed, with long, dark hair tied at the base of his head. His skin had a sheen of sweat where it was visible above his collar and below the rolled sleeves of his shirt. Both clothes and skin were soiled, as though he’d taken a tumble in a flower bed.

‘You can leave those there,’ Ignis said to the driver. He turned his attention to the young man, ushering him over. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me. You can bring these in for me now.’

The man stopped feet away, watching him in cold silence. Ignis had the distinct feeling of being studied by those eyes, the colour of amber, as they ran up and down his form.

‘You got two arms, don’t you?’ the man said. ‘Why not put ‘em to good use?’

He didn’t wait for any sort of rebuke; side-stepping around Ignis, he headed straight through the front door of the manor without another word.

‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake.’

The lord of the manor did not look like the sort of man who made mistakes — yet here they both were, thoroughly at a loss.

‘Sir,’ Ignis said, fighting to keep his voice from wavering. He could feel heat creeping up the collar of his already-crumpled shirt. ‘I assure you, I have all the correspondence with your housekeeper in my possession. If you’ll allow me to—’

Clarus Amicitia leaned back in his seat and pinched the bridge of his nose. The sigh he gave was so long and weary that Ignis genuinely feared the man might simply turn him out of the manor and send him all the way home.

‘Ms. Elshett?’ Mr. Amicitia said after a moment. ‘She’ll confirm this?’

Ignis nodded.

With another weary sigh, Mr. Amicitia stood from his seat, angled himself toward the door, and opened his mouth to give a shout.

‘Crowe!’ he bellowed, startling Ignis in the process.

It wasn’t long before the door tentatively opened behind Ignis and a young woman’s voice rang out from behind it.

‘Yes, sir?’ the voice said timidly. Ignis recognised it as the girl from earlier.

‘Crowe,’ Mr. Amicitia said, returning to his seat. ‘Where is Ms. Elshett?’

‘Don’t know, sir.’

Ignis flinched, watching the man’s jaw clench with annoyance.

‘Perhaps you might find her for me?’ the man said, his voice clipped.

‘Of course, sir.’

Ignis studied the room while he waited, taking great pains not to accidentally meet Mr. Amicitia’s eye along the way. There was a banner behind his desk — an eagle and a sword — and Ignis found himself wondering if this family were of any relation to the Amicitias that served as Shields to the royal line.

Before too long, the door opened once more and Ignis felt the air stir as a woman stepped up beside him.

‘Sir,’ the woman said.

‘Ms. Elshett,’ Mr. Amicitia said, clasping his fist with his other hand. ‘This gentleman tells me he’s Iris’s new tutor. I was under the impression you had hired a governess. ’

Ignis could barely resist the urge to turn to look at the housekeeper; from what little he could see of her in the periphery of his vision, she seemed remarkably composed in the face of the mixup.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’re expecting Miss Scientia today.’

‘Master Scientia,’ Ignis interjected.

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ the woman replied curtly. ‘We’re expecting one Ignia Scientia.’

Cold dread filled Ignis’s veins, turning his limbs to ice where he sat. He understood, now — he wasn’t in the wrong place, nor had he somehow mistaken his position. The problem was that they were expecting a young woman , and they had received him.

A silence fell over the room, during which Ignis could only imagine the state of his future. He would be sent home, surely; a household seeking a governess had no room for a tutor. His uncle would certainly have a thing or two to say, particularly when he showed up empty-handed and out the handful of silver crowns for the privilege of a wasted journey.

Ignis waited, holding his breath, and then the unexpected happened.

The lord of the manor laughed.

If it was a surprising occurrence, Ms. Elshett made no show of it, merely standing with her hands clasped in front of her while she waited.

‘Master Scientia,’ the lord of the manor said. ‘Through circumstances that I don’t entirely understand, we find ourselves with a young man to carry out a governess’s duties, instead of a young woman. Tell me — you’re fully familiar with the three Rs, yes? Languages, history, geography as well?’

Ignis nodded.

‘And you are still comfortable with schooling my daughter in the etiquette that citizens of the capital are so widely regarded for, yes?’

Once more, Ignis nodded.

Mr. Amicitia rose suddenly, extending his hands palms-upward to either side of him. Ignis was pleased to find, as he looked up at the man’s face, that his eyes were warm with mirth.

‘Then I believe,’ the lord of the manor said, ‘that we have our governess.’

They supplied him with a modest enough room, although it more than suited Ignis’s needs. The wallpaper was a recurring motif of the gardenia for which the manor was named, and the dormer window had a perfect view of the gardens where the flowers bloomed in abundance, carefully cultivated along twisting walkways.

It was a beautiful place, if a little smaller than Ignis had envisioned, and he could see himself quite happily spending the foreseeable future here.

His first meeting with the lord of the manor had certainly been interesting, and getting a laugh out of his new employer was probably a good sign — even if it had been for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps he would grow to like it in this unusual place.

A quiet knock came at the door, and he was so lost in the view he scarcely heard it. It came again, more insistent, and a voice drifted through.

‘Master Scientia?’

He recognised Crowe from her voice and found himself convinced that he would be hearing much more of it in the months to come.

‘Yes?’ he replied, scarcely turning.

He heard the hinges creak as the door carefully opened; heard the floorboards ache beneath the girl’s weight. When she did not immediately speak, he sighed and turned to face her.

Something of her name seemed to suit her, he decided, as he had the first chance to study her in private. Her nose was prominent enough to be noteworthy, although it only seemed to add character to her face. Her lively brown eyes took him in keenly, and seemed to betray an intellect that she probably had very little chance to show.

‘The young miss is back from her visiting her cousins,’ Crowe said. ‘The sir thought you might like to meet her before dinner.’

Ignis sighed and inclined his head. He had rather been looking forward to making his new charge’s acquaintance, prior to his arrival; now, after all the confusion, he found himself a little less sure. At the very least, he hoped he’d like her. He’d heard tales enough of the children of the landed gentry, and how they were so often spoilt.

No different than him growing up, really.

Crowe led him down to the front hall, where Mr. Amicitia stood with a young girl. She was unusually tall, although in the lanky way he’d seen of girls who would grow no taller after their fourteenth birthday. Her dark hair was cropped at jaw-length, hanging in uneven strands.

Ms. Elshett was there too, tutting and tsking while she inspected the girl’s hair. From what Ignis could gather, the haircut had been an impromptu one.

‘Ah,’ Mr. Amicitia said, turning to Ignis. ‘And here he is. Iris, this is Ignis Scientia, your new tutor. Master Scientia, my daughter, Iris.’

Ignis watched the girl’s eyes narrow shrewdly, and he felt a flutter of fear go through him that this would be the precise moment at which he could mark the steady decline of his career. It was embarrassing enough that he had thought he’d been answering the post of a tutor, not a governess, without the sharp wit of a young lady in making to add insult to injury.

She took him quite by surprise when she suddenly crossed the room, tersely sticking her hand out for him to shake.

It was so bald-faced that Ignis almost didn’t take her hand in turn, but she seemed unwilling to accept any sort of refusal from him. Just beyond her, Ms. Elshett shook her head and exchanged an amused glance with the lord of the manor.

‘Papa told me you were supposed to be a girl,’ Iris said, once Ignis had let go of her hand. ‘You don’t look much like a girl.’

‘Iris!’

The interjection came from Mr. Amicitia himself, who covered his face with his hand.

In spite of himself, Ignis couldn’t help but smile.

‘Will you be eating with us tonight?’ the girl said, turning to Ignis.

Ms. Elshett had mentioned something about Iris being incorrigible in their correspondence — that their last governess had been able to do little about her impertinence and clear disregard for etiquette.

Truly, Ms. Elshett’s first letter had said, I believe at times that the young miss believes she’s one of the boys.

‘He shall,’ Mr. Amicitia replied. ‘But first you need to wash up, Iris. You still have have muck from the road all over your skirt.’

Iris didn’t even seem to hear her father’s words, instead spinning around as though searching for someone.

‘Is Gladdy home?’ she said, staring pointedly at her father.

‘Later,’ Mr. Amicitia said, with an impatient wave of his hands. ‘Go wash up, before I have Ms. Elshett carry you.’

As if to prove his words, the housekeeper took a sudden step toward Iris, which sent the girl running up the stairs, squealing in play-terror as she went.

‘Do you find your room to your liking, Master Scientia?’ Mr. Amicitia said, shortly after Iris had disappeared.

Ignis nodded politely.

‘It has a wonderful view, sir,’ he said. ‘The gardens are truly magnificent.’

‘My late wife’s influence,’ Mr. Amicitia replied. ‘I’m afraid I was quite at a loss when I inherited not only the estate, but the flowers that came with it. You can, of course, wander freely about the gardens as you please. Iris’s last governess used to take lessons with her outside, when the weather was fine.’

The exchange of pleasantries was an intimidating prospect for Ignis; he had been raised to make small talk with those of similar standing, but this was the first time he had ever really been in the company of someone who was now his social better. It was going to be quite an adjustment.

He was saved the anxiety of floundering for something polite to say as a young man stepped into the room. It was the one from earlier, who had been so rude on Ignis’s arrived. He looked a great deal cleaner and more put-together.

Ignis regarded him coolly, but the young man didn’t so much as bother returning his glance.

‘Gladiolus,’ Mr. Amicitia said. ‘Now is as good a time as any to introduce you to Iris’s new tutor, Ignis Scientia. Master Scientia, this is my son, Gladiolus.’

Ignis’s heart lurched. It couldn’t really be true — this man, who had arrived at the door all filthy and dishevelled, was Mr. Amicitia’s son?

Ignis could feel the colour drain from his face. He had addressed this young man as though he were a servant; no wonder he had been so curt in response.

‘We’ve met,’ Gladiolus said bluntly. ‘Iris home yet?’

His father seemed oblivious to the tension in the room, although Ms. Elshett’s eyes flicked from Ignis to Gladiolus and back again, as though she were somehow privy to the situation. Perhaps Crowe had filled her in.

‘Just arrived,’ Mr. Amicitia said. ‘Although—’ he put out a hand to stop Gladiolus here, with a stern look ‘—I had enough trouble sending her off to wash up without you distracting her all the more. You’ll see her at dinner. Master Scientia will be there, too.’

Gladiolus turned, and for the first time since their formal introduction, he met Ignis’s eye. His upbringing was plain to see now, in the way he held himself: the tilt of his jaw, the cut of his clothes. He had a labourer’s muscles hidden away, however, under his brocade vest and neatly-pressed shirt — and his skin was deeply tanned, as if from hours spent under the sun.

‘I guess I’ll see you then,’ the young man said, his eyes never leaving Ignis’s.

Prompto glances himself over in the mirror with a sigh. His clothes are starting to get so shabby — he really needs to pick out some new threads. His best friend is coming of age; meanwhile Prompto still dresses like a teenager at a punk concert.

He knows if he opens his closet he’ll just find more of the same, so he puts it out of his head and grabs his camera before heading out.

Ignis’s voice drifts out to him as he heads for the foyer of the Citadel; the royal advisor is arguing with somebody. He knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop, yet even as the thought crosses his mind he finds himself slowing, lightening his footsteps to make less noise.

‘It’s sick, Iggy. It’s nothing more than a toy.’

It’s Gladiolus — Noct’s shield, and one of his few close companions along with Prompto and Ignis. He sounds like he’s within a hair’s breadth of snapping; Prompto has rarely heard him so angry.

‘I’m fully aware of your thoughts on the matter,’ Ignis retorts, ‘and on him. I fail to see how it’s your concern — it won’t matter after tonight.’

Prompto hears Gladiolus heave an impatient sigh, and he can picture the man’s expression clearly: his dark brows pulled low in a frown, his lips pursed.

Prompto gave up on trying to befriend Gladiolus a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had plenty of occasions to get to know the guy. His moods have a tendency to be volatile, so Prompto tries to steer clear of him whenever there’s tension in the air.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Gladiolus snaps. ‘Because it sure seems like you don’t.’

Brisk, heavy footsteps thunder across the polished floor of the foyer; Prompto starts, his heart racing as he sets off at a slow place once more.

As Gladiolus passes, Prompto tries to give a companionable wave; Gladiolus doesn’t even look at him.

Ignis waits by the door in what passes for casual attire for him — a pinstripe grey shirt with the sleeves elegantly rolled just below the elbows, and a pair of pressed slacks.

He doesn’t see Prompto as he approaches; the royal advisor has his face turned away, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, and it’s only once Prompto gets within a few feet that he looks up.

‘Ah,’ Ignis says, with a reasonable impression of a cheery smile. ‘Prompto. Are you ready for our excursion?’

‘Ready to shop until I drop,’ Prompto says, making guns of his fingers.

Usually when Prompto leaves the Citadel, it’s with Noct, which means they go by car; today, he and Ignis are walking. It’s a rare treat, and he’s giddy with excitement as they take the pedestrian entrance out of the Citadel’s grounds — practically bouncing as he walks.

‘Where to first?’ he asks.

Ignis pauses and turns to him; he seems thoughtful for a moment.

‘I thought you might choose,’ he says eventually. ‘Anywhere our legs can take us.’

Prompto glances around, suddenly spoilt for choice. He’s never had to decide where he and Noct were headed before; the prince usually just brought him to the arcade. He can barely think for all the choices Insomnia offers.

He remembers something — a crowded, colourful street full of trendy stores, that he and Noct had once visited when they were younger.

‘The Promenade?’ he suggests. He thinks that’s the name.

With a little smile, Ignis nods.

‘We’ll need to take the subway,’ he says. ‘Follow me.’

Prompto tags along at Ignis’s side, chattering brightly on the way. He can barely even remember what he had overhead of Ignis’s argument — or what it was about it that had made him feel so uneasy. He’s already thinking about all the places he can look to find the perfect gift for Noct, and offering Ignis suggestions for something to buy, too.

At the turnstiles in the subway, Ignis swipes his card over the sensor and slips through. With a jolt, Prompto realises he doesn’t have a card — but then Ignis beckons him onward and he slips through uninhibited.

This is one of the more upmarket subway stations, although it’s still overcrowded. He tries to stay in Ignis’s wake as he slips through the press of bodies; a man in a business suit bumps Prompto’s shoulder as he goes, and when Prompto turns to apologise the man has a clear look of disdain on his face.

He turns, ready to catch up, but Ignis is gone — lost in the flood of bodies moving this way and that, intent on their destinations.

‘Ignis?’ he says and, when panic starts to set in, louder: ‘Ignis!’

He’s shorter than most, struggling to see past people’s heads; he stands up on tiptoes and darts about, looking into the faces of strangers desperate to find somebody he might recognise.

He doesn’t know his way back to the Citadel; doesn’t know Ignis’s number — doesn’t even have a phone to call anybody for help. He can feel panic starting to well up within him as he twirls around and around, desperate for somebody, anybody, to help him.

‘Prompto!’

Ignis is there, rushing towards him; he rests his hands on Prompto’s shoulders, looking him over as though checking for injuries.

‘It’s all right,’ he says, his voice soothing and soft. ‘I’ve found you.’

Prompto feels foolish. Ignis had only been a few feet away; to devolve so quickly into a panic had been decidedly uncool.

‘Come now,’ Ignis says. ‘Let’s go.’

This time, he takes Prompto’s hand and leads him through the crowd.

Insomnia’s public transit runs like clockwork, and they don’t have to wait long for the train that will take them to their destination. It’s only a handful of stops away but Prompto finds himself impatiently checking the board all the while once they depart, watching the routemap light up as they pass each station.

The other passengers give them a wide berth, although Prompto hardly notices. At least it means he has lots of legroom.

The Promenade is one of Insomnia’s more famous locations, with everything from sprawling department stores to flashy fashion boutiques. Stepping out onto street level from the subway, it would be so easy to get lost in the flood of people shopping and browsing, if not for Ignis tightly holding onto his hand.

‘Where to first?’ Ignis says.

He seems a little anxious, somehow. Prompto thinks to ask what’s on his mind, but Ignis quickly reassembles his expression into a neutral smile.

For a moment, Prompto just around the avenue, taking in all the different places they can go. He almost misses the music store, but then he double-takes back to it and points excitedly, hopping on the balls of his feet.

‘There!’ he says.

Ignis happily obliges, leading Prompto by the hand.

Sleepless Records is easily missed — just a doorway with a vinyl sign hanging over it. A narrow corridor leads them forward, with a set of stairs taking them deep below the building, turning at a sharp one-eighty angle, and bringing them into a basement. Whatever the place’s original function, it’s packed to the brim with music paraphernalia and Prompto can only look around in awe.

‘Did you have anything in mind?’ Ignis prompts gently, as they walk into the space.

Prompto scans the signs hanging from the ceiling, shaped like street signs, listing the different genres on offer. He finds the one for ‘Metal/Other’ and follows it as Ignis trails along behind. He could spend hours in this place, if he had the time — and the money. He makes a mental note to tell Noct about it when they meet up later.

He checks under the L tab first, fingers flipping swiftly through the records on offer, but he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. He checks under R for good measure, but there’s only older stuff.

‘Any luck?’ Ignis asks at his elbow.

Prompto shakes his head.

‘Maybe it isn’t out yet,’ he says.

‘Why don’t you ask?’ Ignis suggests.

Together, they venture up to the counter in the corner of the space where a woman with multiple facial piercings sits scrolling idly on a laptop computer. When they step up, she takes her time turning her attention from whatever she’s doing; she flicks one indifferent glance at Prompto and turns to Ignis.

‘Yeah?’ she says.

She couldn’t sound more bored if she tried. Maybe that’s the point.

Ignis coughs delicately into his hand.

‘I’m looking for something by La Rinascita,’ Prompto says, stretching up a little taller so that she can see him properly over the counter. ‘I couldn’t find it.’

‘Metal section,’ she says, eyes returning to her laptop. ‘Under R.’

‘Um.’

Prompto feels like he’s bothering her, but with a gentle nudge from Ignis he tries again.

‘They have a new record out,’ he says haltingly. ‘Culp… Culpa-something?’

‘Culpandus?’ the woman says, without looking out. ‘You can’t get it any more.’

Prompto’s momentarily silenced. He remembers Noct talking about it just recently.

‘But, uh,’ he says, stammering a little. ‘That hasn’t been out all that long… has it?’

With a beleaguered sigh, the woman closes the lid of her laptop and looks him in the eyes for the first time. When she speaks to him, she does so as she would a small child or a puppy.

‘It came out a year ago,’ she says. ‘And it was a limited pressing. You’re out of luck.’

Prompto can feel himself getting upset again, like at the subway station.

‘A year?’ he says, his lip trembling. ‘But— But I—’

‘Listen,’ she says, turning to Ignis. ‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but I think you need to get your unit checked out.’

Prompto expects Ignis to argue on his behalf, but he doesn’t; instead he gives a nod and gently places a hand on Prompto’s back.

‘I understand,’ Ignis says. ‘Thank you for your time.’

Ignis’s hand doesn’t drop all the way back out of the store, until they’re on street level once more.

‘What did she mean?’ Prompto says, turning to him. ‘What unit—’

Ignis silences him with a kind smile.

‘Never mind that,’ he says cheerily. ‘Let’s look somewhere else, shall we?’

Swallowing, Prompto nods.

Her words follow him as they walk, as Ignis leads him into a fashion store not too far from where they stand. He’s still thinking about it while Ignis points out t-shirts that he thinks Noct might like.

Soon, he forgets about it entirely and dives into searching for something for Noct in earnest.

Prompto has just enough time to get his gifts wrapped and wash up before he has to go to meet the prince. He dithers yet again about what to wear, and he’s struggling out of a t-shirt when a knock comes at the door.

He thinks maybe it’s Noct, coming to get him early, but when he hurries to the door with his shirt half-off and pulls it open, it’s Ignis.

‘Oh!’ he says, yanking his shirt straight self-consciously. ‘Iggy! Hey!’

Ignis smiles as he extends his hand, proffering a shopping bag to Prompto.

‘Is this for Noct too?’ Prompto asks, hooking his fingers through the strings of it. ‘Did I forget it?’

Ignis’s lips press together for a moment. Slowly, he shakes his head.

‘I know it’s Noct’s birthday tomorrow,’ he says, ‘but… Why don’t you open it?’

Prompto is bemused, but he shoves his hand into the bag nevertheless. When he withdraws it, there’s a black tank top with a stylised chocobo on the front, wearing shades and a leather jacket.

‘Is this for me?’ he asks.

Ignis nods. He looks as if he might say something, but before he can, Prompto practically jumps at him and grips him in a hug. It takes a moment for Ignis to respond, but when he does he wraps his arms tightly around Prompto. It feels like he might never let go.

He does eventually, of course, and he seems flustered as he takes a step back, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

‘It’s just something small,’ Ignis says. ‘I saw it and thought you might like it.’

It’s a little silly and cute, but — well, that’s the point, isn’t it? Prompto’s always been a kid at heart.

‘I love it,’ he says. ‘Seriously, Iggy — thank you so much. I wish I got you something, though...’

‘Not at all,’ Ignis says with a sniff. ‘Friends get each other gifts all the time to show that they care. It doesn’t mean they expect something in return.’

Prompto had been looking down at the shirt in his hands; at the mention of the word friends he lifts his glance to look at Ignis with an open mouth.

‘Friends?’ he echoes. He hadn’t realised Ignis even thought of him that way. ‘You mean that?’

There’s a matter-of-fact nod from Ignis, after which he dutifully takes the empty shopping bag from Prompto’s hands and neatly folds it.

‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ he says. ‘I wish you both a lovely evening.’

Prompto barely waits for Ignis to leave before he tugs off his own shirt and slips into the new one. With an appraising glance at the mirror, he quickly fixes his hair until he’s happy, grabs Noct’s gifts and sets off out of his room.

He finds his way through the Citadel by muscle memory, headed for Noct’s chambers. As always, there are guards situated all about the place but they barely spare him a glance as he goes. He guesses he’s become such a permanent fixture that they don’t consider him a threat — although he can’t ever remember talking to any of them.

The door is already open when he gets there; when he lets himself in, he finds the table laid out in the middle of the living area with two places set. Dutifully, he sets the pile of gifts down at the edge of the table around and sets off in search of his friend.

He hears Noct, rather than sees him — or more accurately he hears the sounds of the video game he’s playing. Prompto recognises the high-pitched beeps and trills of the platformer they used to play whenever Noct came back from school; with a smile, he realises they haven’t played together in years.

He can’t help but notice, as he follows the noises, that the place seems uncannily empty. His eyes rove the walls seeking out the usual posters and assortments of photographs, but they’re bare.

He’s frowning as he gets to Noct’s room, but it quickly shifts into a smile when he sees his friend. The prince sits cross-legged on the floor in front of his bed — his bed, which Prompto notices, is neatly made for the first time probably ever.

‘You’re playing Dungeon Crawler?’ he asks, as he steps inside.

Noct shrugs; doesn’t even look up from the screen where it bathes his face in an unnatural glow.

‘Nothing else to play,’ he replies flatly. ‘All my other games are at the apartment.’

‘The… apartment?’ Prompto says, shaking his head in confusion.

He sees Noct freeze for just a moment. The Game Over sound rings out from the TV and the screen fades to black, casting the prince’s face in darkness.

‘Uh, nothing,’ Noct says quickly. ‘You ready?’

When Prompto nods in response, he quickly scrambles and shuts off the console and TV before getting to his feet.

Prompto trails behind as Noct leads the way, ruffling a hand through his dark hair as he goes. While Prompto takes his seat, he can hear Noct speaking on a phone behind him, a little too softly for him to pick out.

‘Do you wanna open your gifts?’ Prompto says excitedly as Noct sits down across from him.

Noct shrugs, his eyes down on the place setting in front of him.

‘It’s cool,’ he mutters. ‘I’ll open ‘em tomorrow.’

Prompto sighs and flops back in his seat, glancing around. He had kind of hoped Noct would open his presents so they’d have something to talk about, but here they are now in a silence that feels entirely too awkward.

Idly, he drums his hands on his thighs under the table and bops his head in time to the rhythm.

‘Would you stop that?’ Noct says suddenly.

Prompto freezes and lets his hands come to rest on his lap.

‘Sorry,’ he says, with a meek smile.

There’s another bout of silence, but at least this one is soon broken by the kitchen staff scurrying in and filling the table with dishes.

‘Would you like us to have these left with the others, Highness?’ one of them says, gesturing to Prompto’s gifts.

Noct shakes his head and gives a flick of his hand.

He’s being uncharacteristically brisk — it’s not like him to be so dismissive of Citadel staff. They don’t seem to mind, however, as they never do; they’re quiet and efficient as they serve up the meal, and they bow before leaving just as swiftly as they arrived.

The room seems too empty now, too quiet. Prompto picks up one of the many tiny forks alongside his plate and plays his thumb absently over the intricate inlay on the metal of the handle.

‘Iggy brought me shopping,’ he says brightly. ‘It was really nice.’

Noct stares down at his plate just as he had when it was still empty.

‘Iggy,’ he echoes flatly. ‘Huh.’

‘Yeah,’ Prompto says. ‘He got me this shirt, too. I felt bad ‘cause I didn’t even think to grab something for him.’

When he glances up at Noct, he finally has his friend’s full attention.

He should be glad, he realises, but there’s something unsettling about Noct’s stare. Prompto wilts a little under it until he finds himself looking away.

‘He got that for you?’ Noct says. ‘Why?’

Prompto shrugs. What’s with the questions?

‘I don’t know,’ he mumbles. ‘Guess he was just being nice.’

He feels like he’s been glowering down at his lap for hours when he finally hears the clink of metal against porcelain; from the corner of his eye he can see Noct pushing his food around on his plate, half-hearted.

This isn’t how Prompto expected this to go. This isn’t what he wanted.

‘Fuck this,’ he hears Noct mutter under his breath.

With a clatter, Noct sets his fork down on his plate. His chair screeches as he pushes it back and stands.

‘You’ve still got games in your room, right?’ Noct says.

There’s something frantic about him; he doesn’t wait for an answer as he grabs Prompto’s wrist and tugs him to his feet. They leave the table, food and all, and Prompto allows the prince to drag him along at an urgent pace through the halls of the Citadel. This time, when they pass guards by, they watch with interest.

‘What are we doing?’ Prompto asks, as Noct lets himself into his room.

The prince is silent as he hunts through Prompto’s modest collection of games; he discards them as he goes, tossing them onto the floor, and Prompto rushes over to stop him.

‘Hey!’ he protests.

‘There’s nothing here, ’ Noct complains, throwing his hands up in exasperation. ‘Why don’t you have anything?’

Prompto opens his mouth to argue, but Noct merely gets to his feet and storms about the place, leaving a trail of destruction as he goes. Nothing is safe as he yanks things off the dresser, rifles through drawers, flings open the doors of his closet.

‘None of this is real,’ he growls, gesturing wildly about himself.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Prompto says, barely able to get his voice out.

Prompto flinches as Noct tears one of the photos from the adhesive holding it to the mirror; he thunders over and shoves the picture in Prompto’s face, in front of his eyes.

‘This,’ Noct blurts. ‘It’s all fake.’

When Prompto looks at the picture, he can’t see what Noct means. It’s just a shot of them together at the park when they were younger, both grinning madly.

‘Dude,’ he says. ‘What’s going on?’

Noct lets the photo drop. In its place is his face, squared up with Prompto’s, and there’s a snarl contorting his lips.

‘Don’t you see anything?’ he says, prodding Prompto hard in the chest. ‘You were supposed to be top of the line. You’re too stupidto realise you’re not even real.’

He shoves Prompto then, hard, and Prompto staggers back. He’d fall if not for the bed behind him; as it is, he stumbles into it and barely catches himself.

There’s someone hammering at the door — it bursts open without either of them saying anything. Gladiolus is there, Ignis at his side, and Prompto watches dumbly as Gladiolus runs to check on Noct.

The prince is all right, of course; Prompto would never lay a hand on him. That doesn’t stop the future king’s shield eyeing him up angrily.

‘Noct,’ Ignis says gently. ‘Perhaps we should talk about this.’

When Ignis stretches out a hand to touch his arm, Noct throws it off and Prompto catches sight of his face. It’s bright red, his eyes swollen from crying.

‘Don’t,’ Noct blurts. ‘Don’t baby me.’

He crosses the room with short, angry strides and vanishes out of the door. After exchanging glances with Ignis, Gladiolus hurries out after him, leaving Ignis and Prompto alone.

‘Did I do something wrong?’ Prompto murmurs. ‘What did I do wrong?’

Ignis shakes his head; he moves and sits at Prompto’s side, touching his hand gently.

‘Nothing, Prompto,’ he says softly. ‘It’s time for you to sleep. This will all be better in the morning.’

Prompto hadn’t thought he was tired; now that he thinks of it, his eyes are so heavy. He crawls up the bed and stretches out on top of the covers.

‘Do you think I should try to talk to him?’ he asks, peeking down at Ignis where he sits at the edge of the bed, his back in silhouette against the lights outside the open door.

‘Sleep, Prompto,’ Ignis says.