#mtraki

“If you think I won’t rap your knuckles with my cane, you are mistaken, old friend.”

“So’re you, if you think that will stop me.”

Regis looked at his son, incredibly serious, “Hit the gas.”

Without thinking, Noctis immediately obeyed.  The big engine of the Regalia roared gamely as he stomped the gas pedal, not entirely sure it was the right one.

“Huh.” Regis remarked, even as the Marshal unlocked the door and opened it, requiring every ounce of self-discipline in his body to not roll his eyes at his royals, “I was certain that would work.”

“Maybe if it wasn’t in ‘park’…”

“Wasn’t in what?” Noctis demanded, just as confused.

Only narrowly avoiding the facepalm, Cor looked back toward the Citadel entrance where the other teenager was waiting anxiously, “And you were just going to let this happen?”

“His Majesty insisted,” Ignis retorted defensively, “How was I supposed to tell him ‘no’?”

Noctis grumbled, “Shut up, Cor.”

Eventually, they managed to get resituated: Cor in the passenger side with King Regis behind him and Ignis beside him to sit behind Noctis on the driver’s side.

“You know where the gas is.  The other one is the brakes,” Cor announced dryly, “Since Regalia is an automatic.”

“I know that.”

“Great.  Step on the brake and take it out of park then.”

Eager to impress, Noctis stood on the brake and looked around a few moments before hesitantly flicking on the windshield wipers and hurriedly turning them off again.

“Center console.” Ignis said helpfully.

Embarrassed, the Prince muttered, “Shut up specs, that’s air conditioning and radio.”

Wordlessly, Cor pointed at the gear shift, withholding the long-suffering sigh.

“Oh.”

Regis beamed encouragingly, “Take your time, son.”

“Regis is your seatbelt on?” Demanded the Marshal.  He was having upsetting flashbacks from the last time he’d not been behind the wheel of the Regalia.

“Really, Cor, I don’t see—“

“Ignis?”

“No Marshal, it isn’t… Your Majesty, please buckle your seatbelt.  I’m afraid I must insist, as your safety is paramount…”  The young Crownsguard was threatening to become didactic so the King simply pursed his lips and buckled up.

“If anything happens, we can just warp away, anyway,” Noctis rolled his eyes, “It’s you two who will need seatbelts if we don’t take you with us.”  The Prince managed to get the Regalia into the proper gear and followed the instructions to slowly let off the brakes.

“Both hands on the wheel.”

“Yeah okay.”

“… I mean it, Prince Noctis.”

“What’s the big deal?  You don’t use both hands…” Noctis regretted his words when he felt the unwavering hard stare.

“I’ve been driving longer than you’ve been alive.  Put both hands on the wheel.”

Regis caught Ignis’s eye in the backseat and muttered conspiratorially, “Is he this strict about everything.”

“The Marshal is simply concerned with proper driver safety.” Ignis blinked back.

The King frowned, “I remember Cor being much more adventurous in the past…”

“Hey can we go pick up Prompto?” The Prince wanted to know.

Beaming, Regis leaned forward against his seatbelt, “I think that’s a wonderful idea.  We should certainly go see young Prompto.”

The Marshal had given up on getting out of this without a headache, “Sure.  Fine.”  At least the Prince seemed capable of steering the sedan, even along the twisting driveway. “Turn right, here.”

Noctis frowned, “But that takes the long way…”

“Yes, but going straight puts you right into merging traffic.” Ignis pointed out.

“I can merge just fine.”

“Noctis…” Cor began.

“Noctis.” Ignis cautioned.

“Oh leave him alone, he’s doing fine.” Regis admonished them.

Forty-five seconds and a near-intimate encounter with a red coupe later, Cor and Noctis had managed to stop white-knuckling the steering wheel and Ignis had just dropped his arms from shielding the King.

“… We’ll work on merging…” The Marshal said quietly and very generously, licking his lips and easing back into his own seat.

Exhaling his screaming nerves, the Prince said, “Yeah.  Later.  Do I just keep going straight?”

“That’s probably best for now.”

“Red light.” Was Ignis’s insistent prompt that was probably supposed to sound helpful but instead came off a little panicked.

“I see it.”

Chuckling, Regis patted the young Crownsguard on the shoulder, “He sees it.”

“You’re enjoying this, your Majesty?”

“I get to spend some quality time with my son!  And he’s learning how to drive in my car!  I’m so proud…”

“Come on Dad… don’t get all sentimental…”

Cor’s body language had degraded to ‘resigned’, but his tone had sharpened, “Eyes on the road.  And that’s really a red light.  Slow down.”

“Okay okay.”  The Regalia rolled slowly to the stop line before jerking to an abrupt halt, shoving all of its passengers against their restraints.

“… Easier on that.  It’s not an on-off switch…”

“Got it.” It was only that the Marshal had literally saved their lives two minutes ago that Noctis wasn’t regretting not warping out of the car the moment the old soldier climbed into it.

After the light changed and they were on the move again, the King noticed his text.  Raising both eyebrows, he queried, “Cor… Why is Clarus asking me if he’s seen you?”

“Tell him you haven’t.”

“Cor…” Regis’s tone almost threatened to be actually perturbed, “Did you really interrupt my father-son time just to get out of a meeting?”

“No.  I left the Citadel to get out of a meeting.  I got in this car so you two wouldn’t kill yourselves.”

“You’re so busted.” Noctis chuckled.

Regis hummed and returned Clarus’s text, “Indeed.”

“Assuming we survive this…” The Marshal snorted.  About to defend his son again, the King of Lucis fell silent when Noctis suddenly turned the wrong way onto a narrow one-way street, coming face to face with a delivery truck.

They did survive, of course, despite the screaming of people and metal.  Cor limped the car back to the Citadel.  The Shield of the King was waiting with an impressive frown for him.

“If you take a photo of me tonight, you will not have your camera or your phone tomorrow.”

Such threats were not made lightly.  Cor always meant what he said.  Always.  “Come on, you have no idea how much the ‘promcor’ fans need it!”

“The what fans?”

“Uh… I said ‘promcor’ but maybe that’s not what it is… ‘Corprom’?  ‘Corpto’?  ‘Copto’? ‘Promtor’?  Six, this is hard…!”

Cor was staring at him, and Prompto self-consciously changed his seating position because Cor was looking at him and he was just barely not-naked.  Cor already knew he was hot for him—burning, on fire, ‘Ravatogh-had-nothing-on-this’ hot—but really hadn’t brought it up since the big (completely unintentional) reveal, so Prompto did his best to let it go.  So he wouldn’t accidentally get his stupid feelings crushed.  It was enough that Cor was still comfortable around him—comfortable being naked around him, even.  There wasn’t a good reason to make things awkward with a big, dumb boner he’d have to do something about later, probably.  By himself, away from the Marshal.

Cor’s eyebrows pinched together, “What are you talking about?”

“Internet tags.  F-for my photos?”

Eyes narrowing, Cor asked, “… Photos of me?”

Prompto could feel himself deflating, leaking confidence in spewing gouts like a sieve had opened inside him, “Of… of us.” He said quietly.

“Us.” The Marshal acceded dubiously. “Photos of us on the internet.”

It was stupid.  It was dumb. “Y… yeah.  Nothing… nothing crazy.  I mean I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have put you n-n-naked up… Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Was the scoff down the narrow length of the caravan.  Cor was checking the condition of his pants—still wet, apparently, since he didn’t move to put them on, remaining in the towel and causing Prompto’s brain to misfire every second it wasn’t telling him how stupid he was.

“I wouldn’t!  Th-that’s seriously messed up!” He protested insistently despite his steadily weakening tone, “I-it’s like a crime and everything!”

The steely blue eyes were back to staring at him, but it didn’t have the same effect as earlier—though little had changed there, regardless—and the blond shifted uneasily, completely unable to meet his look.  It was stupid.  It was dumb.  He’d fucked up.  It didn’t mean anything, just his stupid feelings running on ahead like they shouldn’t.  It was his own stupid fault for them getting crushed.

It didn’t mean anything…

“… So the tag is… our names?”

“Huh?  O-oh.  Yeah.  Or parts of them.  So… people can find the photos if they search it.” Suddenly tired, Prompto, gestured with his free hand, “… Y-y’know, just… forget it.  Was just saying stuff…”

Cor seemed to consider that, then shrugged, “Why not just ‘Prompto and Cor’?”

“That could work on… I guess normal browser searches.  But not on the platform I’m on.  Needs to be shorter, no spaces.  Also… the naming convention usually… it s-says something.  About what the photos mean.” It was dumb.  It was stupid.  He absolutely wasn’t going to say it out loud.

But Cor was already thinking about it, watching his face.  Instead of asking the questions Prompto knew he had, the man said, “Putting the names together into one name indicates that we’re together.  A couple.”

Stupid of him, to forget how damn smart the Marshal was.  Sure, he might not be keyed in on all the internet culture, but he could figure things out—the way people talked about or around things.  He had to be to manage the entire Crownsguard.

It was stupid.  It was dumb.  It didn’t mean anything.  It was just in his head.

Except now it was out in the open, bleeding and flopping around on the floor between them.  This stupid little idea, this fantasy that just because the Marshal hadn’t yet shoved him away or forged on ahead without him meant maybe he had a shot.  This illusion that Cor liked him instead of looked out for him.  What could he offer this person?  Exactly what could he hope to offer this amazing person besides one headache after another?

“…’Proco’.”

“Huh?”

“No.  ‘Procor’.  ‘Corto.’” Then he chuckled and looked at the ceiling, and the shadow of a smile on his face made the blond forget all his misgivings for a breath or two.  He’d give a lot—a whole lot—to keep that expression on the other man’s face, “’Orto’.”

“Seriously?” Prompto snorted, “That’s terrible.”

“’Toor’?”

“You’re just trying to make them terrible now.”

Cor grinned, a brief flash of teeth and humor, “Cut me some slack, I’m new at this.”

Staring, Prompto didn’t remember climbing to his feet, too dumbstruck by the expressions on the Marshal’s face.  To stunned to laugh or joke or even take a photo.  Too busy staring and wanting to do anything else—even try and hide it.

The Marshal stopped grinning when he saw his expression.  Sobering, he crossed the length of the caravan to lean close.  Still mostly-naked, wearing only the thin towel around his hips.  Prompto did not cower against the wall, but it was a very near thing. “Cut us both some slack…” Cor said, voice low.

The blond gulped, “Uh-huh.  S-sure.  As-as much as you want.  All th-the slack…”

“Not that much,” Was the correction as the bigger man loomed even closer.

“O-o-kay… W-what are you…?”

He didn’t finish.  Cor had pressed his brow against his, so they were eye to eye even though he’d had to bend more than six inches to get there.  Prompto’s breath caught at the weight, the intimacy of it.  It wasn’t a kiss, and part of him wanted it to be, but Cor had done this on his own and it felt…

It felt important.  More important than wanting a kiss or the right internet tag.

Cor’s eyes were lowered, almost half-closed it seemed, and one of his hands rested on the back of Prompto’s neck, “Just a little slack.  I don’t do this… much.”

“It… it’s okay.”

“I’ll get myself straightened out.  I just need… a little more time.”

“Y-you don’t have to, Cor… R-really…” It was weird to think Cor, the Immortal would need to ‘take things slow’ to ‘straighten himself out’.  It was strange to think the Marshal had hang-ups he had to get over.  Prompto realized he didn’t really know him that well, which bothered him, a little, considering the strength of his feelings.

The steely eyes rose, pinning him more effectively than his hand or his forehead, “I want to.”

Then he stepped away, leaving Prompto completely devastated there against the wall in the wake of the bombs he’d dropped.  It wasn’t stupid.  It wasn’t dumb.  It wasn’t just in his head.

It was real.

It was real.

But after cooking and eating and cleaning up, the blond had to banish himself to the far end of the haven so he wouldn’t make a nuisance of himself.  His entire body hummed with nervous energy, because he was alone with Ignis.  Which was fine!  Had been fine, anyway, until they’d run out of things to do and Ignis had started to address the emails on his phone, convincing Prompto that he ought to be quiet and unobtrusive so his friend could work.

The blond rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, “Uh, y’know, just restless.”

“I see.” And Ignis went back to work.

Prompto paced back and forth, then finally went and sat down next to his friend, folding his legs under him.

“Do you miss having a computer?” He asked.

Ignis glanced at him, then straightened to look at him properly, “What do you mean?”

“Like, you know, for doing work.  Do you miss having a computer or laptop?”

Pursing his lips momentarily, Ignis shook his head in the negative, “Not really.  I’ve grown accustomed to working from a mobile phone for years now. Computers– even laptop computers– are more ungainly and more dependent on an external power-source.  Both of these factors make them less useful in respect of my duties.”

Prompto nodded, “I guess that makes sense…”

Ignis was about to turn back to his work, but then he hesitated and queried, “…Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” Prompto shrugged, “no reason.  Just making conversation. A lot of people don’t like having to write long responses without a real keyboard.”

“Do you miss computers?”

“Not really.  I gamed on the console or my mobile phone, y’know?  Computer was mostly for homework, and who misses that?”

“What do you miss from the Crown City?” Ignis queried then, seizing Prompto’s gaze with his own.

Ignis had an intense gaze.  Unwavering and sharp, even if he didn’t intend for it to be intimidating, it always was.  Like a scalpel, it cut right through Prompto, and it was all he could do to keep from shrinking into the stone of the haven under their feet. “M-m-me?  M-m-miss? From the c-c-ity?”

“Yes.  Is there anything in particular that you miss?”

Meeting Ignis’s look, it was hard to think about anything besides how overwhelmed he felt under those green eyes, and how much he wanted to have his attention like this forever, until it didn’t feel so gut-wrenchingly terrifying.  But he had to say something.  He had to give an answer, because Ignis was expecting one, and Prompto desperately didn’t want to disappoint his expectations.

“… Nah.  I’ve got my camera, my buds, my meals are great, new adventure every day, and most days I’ve got cell service!  What more could a guy ask for?” He grinned, hoping the bravado wasn’t as obvious to the advisor as it was his own ears.

Ignis snorted, “A suitable bathtub and working toilets, I’d say.”

“R-Really…?”

“Yes, indeed,” The man in glasses groused, “If I had to count the amount of toilets that either backed up or refused to flush that I’ve encountered on this trip, I’d soon run out of fingers and toes.  Even if a room we’ve rented features a tub– which I can count on one hand the amount of times, though I don’t need to, because it is exactly three– it’s always been a shallow, narrow basin under a mildewed shower-head with no room whatsoever for a grown human to actually indulge in a bath.”

Prompto was laughing before the end of his friend’s diatribe.  Part of him wondered if that was why Ignis had brought it up in the first place– to be funny.  “You’re sounding pretty entitled there, Iggy.”

“I suppose.  I was born to a certain standard of living, and raised alongside the Prince.  Still, working toilets are basic amenities.”

“Life’s hard out here in the sticks, huh?”

“Certainly messier.”

The blond continued laughing, more at the put-upon expression on Ignis’s face than anything else.  He’d put his hand on his shoulder, intending to pat in a jest of consolation, but then Ignis had leaned toward him and so his hand rested there instead.  He was warm. Warm and solid, and Prompto couldn’t convince himself to move his hand again. The realization was enough to stifle the laughter.

Clearing his throat, he said, “… I kinda miss the old routine?  Not because of what it was, but because I knew what to expect?  Wake up at four, drink some water, dress, warm-up, run.  Long runs on Tuesday and Fridays, short runs every other day but Saturday.  Shower, breakfast, meet the Marshal for training… I kinda miss the familiarity… Just sometimes, y’know?”

“Change is often difficult,” Ignis agreed, “but we do have a sort of routine to our days now.  It will become familiar in time.” “Yeah.” The blond shrugged, unable to meet his gaze this time, “I know.  I don’t want you to think I regret coming…” “I don’t think that.” “…Cool.  Good.”

They sat there quietly for a few heartbeats, Prompto feeling his start to race for no reason except that Ignis hadn’t shrugged away from his hand.

Then, “Is everything all right, Prompto?”

“Yeah…?  Why wouldn’t–” “… It’s just that your hand is still on my shoulder.” “Oh.”  Flushing, he released Ignis, immediately missing the solid warmth.  He felt Ignis’s perceptive gaze, and then a gloved hand came up, brushing his hair away from his brow.

“Are you quite sure you’re alright?  Your face is very red…”