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It starts with a sniffle.
Prompto doesn’t think much of it, at first. Half the students in class have been absent over the course of the past month with a stubborn cold that didn’t know when to give up. Seeing an empty seat or two wasn’t uncommon this time of year.
Thankfully, Prompto had managed to dodge the bug so far, as had Noctis. Which was surprising, at least for Prompto, who had the immune defense of a wet paper bag as a kid. Noctis apparently had magic backing him up, which was totally unfair, so him catching anything like the common cold was rare.
Which is why, in the middle of the quiet misery of calculus class, Noctis’ sniffle seems deafeningly loud.
Prompto peeks over his shoulder at him, but nothing seems overly alarming. His gaze looks a little dazed, perhaps, but they were in calculus, so that wasn’t particularly strange. If not for the sniffle breaking his concentration, Prompto himself would have been continuing his staring contest with the clock at the front of the classroom.
“You okay, bud?” he whispers to Noctis, under the monotonous drone of the teacher’s voice.
There’s a noticeable delay before Noctis responds, and when he does it’s a sneeze.
He tries to be subtle about it, covering his face with the crook of his elbow to muffle the sound, but to Prompto it’s shocking.
Literally.
A zap of static jolts across Prompto’s back from where the metal of his seat touches Noct’s desk.
“Ouch!” he hisses, as quietly as being mildly electrocuted allows. Every hair on his arms is standing on end.
This, perhaps, should have been his first clue that this cold was not a normal cold.
“I’m okay,” Noctis finally replies, not acknowledging the odd static shock, or maybe entirely oblivious to it. Prompto abandons whatever miniscule amount of attention he had remaining on calculus and turns in his seat.
Which is when he notices that the inner elbow of his blazer is singed. The fabric is burnt and blackened, and there’s a notable smell of ozone.
What in Ifrit’s toasty hell. “Dude??”
“Sorry,” Noct says. His voice is a bit croaky.
Ignoring the fact that his friend’s bodily functions are electrically charged, Prompto whispers, “Do you need to go to home?” Or maybe to a power plant? He would have suggested the school’s nurse, but he somehow doubts they’d be able to help with… whatever this is.
Noctis takes a moment to process Prompto’s words. “Nah. There’s only twenty minutes left of class anyway. We’ll survive.”
Prompto nods, hesitantly, because he’s never had to be reassured of his survival for a sneeze before. “”We’ll”? Don’t you mean “I’ll”?”
The prince blinks at him, sluggishly. “No.”
With that, Prompto considers using the remaining time in class to write out a Will, but ultimately decides he’s being dramatic. A cold can’t be that dangerous…
…Right?
The twenty minutes pass without catastrophe, the worst thing being that he still had to endure the rest of calculus. They head outside as school ends, Noctis getting a few odd looks from those who notice the giant burn mark on the arm of his blazer, to wait for Ignis to pick them up to take them to Noct’s apartment. Prompto idly wonders if he should send him a message warning him of Noctis’ newfound ability to weaponize sneezes.
Almost at the thought, Noct sneezes again. This time, Prompto swears he hears thunder in the distance.
“Is this… uh. Normal?” Prompto asks. Warily, like edging a fork closer to Ramuh to see if his beard would zap him.
“Unfortunately,” is all Noctis says, squinting at the new thundercloud on the horizon that definitely wasn’t there before. “Don’t worry, it’s just magic discharge.”
That… definitely sounds like something to worry about.
“Magic what?” he squeaks.
Noctis opens his mouth to reply, or sneeze, or maybe discharge magic again, when Ignis drives up.
The advisor takes one look at Noct’s bleary eyes and slightly swaying form and says, with no small amount of dread: “You’re sick.”
Noctis simply nods, and immediately Ignis is out of the car. He covers the prince in a coat, facemask, hat, and gloves, all pulled from seemingly nowhere, in under a minute. Prompto would have thought the action endearing and slightly overprotective, if it weren’t for the fact that the attire was fireproof. The gloves were rubber and insulated, the coat a sturdy kevlar, and the mask industrial grade.
“Uhhh… Ignis? Why are you dressing Noct like he’s about to spontaneously combust?” he asks, as the advisor manhandles Noctis’ feet, dress shoes and all, into thick rubber boots.
“Because that’s a very real possibility,” he replies briskly.
“…What?!”
Noctis says something through his many layers, but all that filters through is a muffled noise. He tugs the mask down a bit, rolling his eyes and repeats himself. “I’m fine. It’s not dangerous.”
“How is bursting into flames not dangerous?!” Prompto exclaims, his voice squeaking up an octave or two.
Ignis gives the prince a stern look and snaps the mask back into place. “Noctis is correct; the magical outbursts are not dangerous…” and Prompto allows himself to relax minutely. Until, that is, Ignis follows up with, “…for him.”
Oh. So the guy he has a crush on is only a potential fire hazard to others, not himself. Okay.
Wait.
Not okay!
“Highness, into the car,” Ignis says, ushering Noctis (who can only awkwardly shuffle now with all the extra layers he's wearing) to the car. “Prompto, I apologize, but I must get Noctis back to the Citadel immediately. Are you alright to find your own way home?”
Prompto used to walk home every day prior to befriending Noctis, so it’s not really any trouble. However, the thought of leaving Noctis alone to battle what is apparently a potentially calamitous cold makes something in his chest clench.
He’s about to (perhaps unwisely, but this is for Noct, okay?) ask to go with them, when Noctis’ muffled voice reaches him through the layers of insulation.
“Wait,” Noct pleads tiredly to the blond, “Stay with me?”
And Prompto is already stepping forward. “Sure thing, buddy.”
“Prompto, no.” Ignis stresses, “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
Sounds like the definition of life, to him. He shrugs. How bad could it be?
“Don’t worry!” Prompto reassures with a smile, already getting into the car. “Besides, what’s a little spontaneous combustion between friends?”
“This is a terrible idea,” Ignis laments later, once they’ve arrived at the Citadel. Prompto has only ever visited the place a few times, since both Noctis and him prefer the more modest alternative of Noct’s apartment over the overwhelming regality of the Citadel.
“Maybe not,” Gladio says, ushering the increasingly zombie-like prince into a suite that is oddly… reinforced.
“How so?” Ignis shoots the Shield an incredulous glance. “You know what happened last time.”
Prompto mostly ignores them, his focus on getting Noctis and his many layers to shuffle over to the couch, but he still has enough attention to wonder what the hell happened before that instilled so much dread into the two of them.
Noctis flops bonelessly onto the couch, looking more like an odd heap of assorted clothes than a functional human being. The pile whines, ineffectively kicking at the boots covering his already-shoed feet. It’s adorable.
“Yeah,” Gladio grimaces in reply to Ignis. “But think about it. The twig is still in Crownsguard training; he doesn’t have access to the Armiger yet.”
“Not a twig,” Prompto grumbles as he tries to pry the boot off of Noct’s foot. What did the Armiger have to do with anything? The boot, and the shoe within the boot, pops free and sends the blond tumbling backward onto his butt with a muted “oof.”
“I hadn’t thought of that…” Ignis mutters, relief growing in his voice. He watches Prompto start to wrestle the other boot off. Prompto does not like that calculating look in his eyes At All. “That is excellent!”
Did anyone else just feel a sense of impending doom? Prompto wonders. No? Just him? Okay, then.
The boot pops off, and Prompto falls to the floor.
“Prompto,” Ignis steps over to him. Oh no. “How do you feel about staying here with Noctis until his cold has passed?”
Wait, what? “Stay with Noctis?”
“Yes, to take care of him or assist should he need something.”
“Uh…” What makes them think Prompto is even remotely qualified to take care of another human being? And a magical one, at that? Prompto is barely functional himself sometimes. Plus, “Wasn’t there something said about combustion earlier?”
This seems like an extremely valid question, but Ignis waves it off.
“Don’t worry, it’s not usually lethal.” …Why does that need to be clarified? The words would almost have been reassuring, if not immediately followed up with: “However, should anything occur, the Crown will compensate you for any injuries.”
“That’s…” terrifying, “…Good to know. But, uh. Why am I looking after Noct, and not like, an actual doctor? Or you?”
Because if this cold was that serious, shouldn’t Noctis be in a hospital? And Ignis is like, the mom friend, and was basically raised to care for the prince. Taking care of him while he has a cold seems like an extremely Ignis thing to do. Prompto, on the other hand, can maybe heat up a bowl of soup.
“There’s little a doctor can do for a cold except make him comfortable,” Ignis answers. “As for why I cannot assist… That would be because of magic.”
Of course. “Magic.”
“The Armiger, specifically.”
Prompto has been waiting for this all to start making sense for an hour so far, but alas, he understands nothing.
Regardless, “I don’t mind staying,” he says cautiously. He’d do anything for Noct, although he’d really rather not burst into flames if he can help it. “But you’re gonna have to explain a bit more than that.”
“Thank you, Prompto.” Ignis breathes, relieved in such a way Prompto immediately wonders what he just signed up for. “And don’t worry, there’s a manual.”
“A manual,” Prompto says flatly.
He thinks he’s joking, until Ignis hefts up a monstrously thick tome, an encyclopedia on steroids, onto the wooden coffee table. He swears he hears the wood groan. The book looks like it has survived a duel with a daemon, or skipped jauntily through the apocalypse for some afternoon tea. The cover is burnt and scarred, the many pages curled and some sections having been repaired multiple times, and the spine reinforced with thick metal clasps.
The title reads:
Caring for Sick Royalty: A Survival Guide
…Not a great sign. Tentatively, Prompto cracks the cover open, peering at the worryingly long table of contents.
Chapter 1: Write a Will
…oh, Six.
Ignis and Gladio depart, leaving him with a napping prince and an extensive list of reassurances that do very little to actually reassure him. “We’ll be nearby if you need us in an emergency,” and “we’ll contact the school and your parents to let them know of your absence,” and “the suite is fully stocked with food and first-aid kits,” and the like.
None of it answers what instilled such dread into the two of them, or why him not being connected to the Armiger matters. Currently, Prompto is still a few months away from completing his Crownsguard training, and only then is Noctis allowed to train him in the fancy magic stuff. What this has to do with super-powered colds, he has no idea.
“Will you tell me why I need to write a Will?” Prompto asks his friend.
Noctis responds with an increasingly congested snore.
“Great. Thanks, buddy. That explains everything,” he says dryly.
Prompto stands, ignores the foreboding death-tome, and starts exploring the suite (or very pretty bunker) that Noct and him will be calling home for the next week or so. The main lounge area is huge, decked out in expensive furniture and décor he’s vaguely scared to touch. Through the farthest doors from the entrance is a set of bedrooms, both equally large and fancy, with huge beds and ensuite bathrooms. On the opposite side of the lounge is a kitchen, and next to that is what Prompto deems the Doomsday Room.
It's packed full of every survival supply one could think of, and some Prompto doesn’t even know the names of. First aid kits, tourniquets, face masks, fire extinguishers, splints, crutches, wheelchairs, full-body radiation suits, body armor, thermal blankets, respirators, most basic medicines from all over on Eos, and more.
“Right. That’s not intimidating at all,” Prompto gulps. Still, he ventures inside and begins his usual prep for what he himself does to deal with his own colds. He grabs cold medicine, fever reducers, a thermometer, some extra blankets, and a couple boxes of tissues.
Next, he heads for the kitchen. Normally he’d make some soup or other easy on the stomach dishes, but upon opening the fridge and finding every shelf bursting with a variety of pre-made five-star soups, rice dishes, jello, and other light foods, as well as a note on the fridge door detailing how to call the Citadel kitchens for room service, he decides he can skip that step. Instead, he takes his pilfered medicines and other goodies from the Doomsday Room to one of the bedrooms to drop off.
The next thing he usually does after gathering supplies is to get comfy, find a bed, and not move for several days. Noctis, currently face-planted on the couch, does not meet any of these criteria.
“Noooct,” Prompto sing-songs, reaching to gently shake his best friends shoulder. There’s a distinct zap of static as his fingers make contact, but he ignores the sting. “Wakey-wakey! You’ll be way comfier in some pajamas and cocooned in your fancy Citadel bed. You know, the one with two-thousand thread count sheets and eight pillows?” And a lightning rod welded to the base.
Noctis lifts his head groggily in response to Prompto’s voice. Or perhaps the mention of a bed. The prince has three favorite things in this world: fishing, videogames, and sleep. To him, the promise of a comfy slumber is a siren’s call.
“Prom?” Noctis mumbles, “What’re you doing here?”
“I’m your babysitter!” Prompto pokes him gently, but incessantly, on the cheek until he sits up. “Prince-sitter? Hm, no, that sounds weird. I’m not gonna sit on you. I will, however, make you eat soup, take medicine, and sleep a bunch.” Noctis shuffles to standing and Prompto begins the process of herding the half-asleep royal to a proper bed. “We could watch a movie! Or TV. I mean, have you seen the size of the screen in your room? I’ve always wanted to have access to three-thousand channels for no discernable reason. Oh! I’ll put on the fishing channel! If that can’t help a person sleep, nothing will. Or how about—”
Noctis listens to Prompto’s rambling with a soft smile on his face, as usual, if a bit more bleary than normal. He doesn’t say anything about being sick, his apparent house arrest, or his magic going haywire. What he does say is:
“You’re staying?”
It hits Prompto then, what that means. What he agreed to. He’ll be staying with Noctis, the guy he’s had a crush on for years, in a fancy suite for a week or longer. Alone.
With the possible threat of death, but that’s not important right now.
It would be a dream come true, if Noctis wasn’t sick. Then again, Prompto isn’t sure Noctis feels the same way. He’s never said anything, despite the occasional lingering look Prompto catches every once in a while. And now, with Noctis sneezing lightning, it’s hardly the best time to talk about feelings.
So Prompto just smiles, and says: “Ever at your side, Noct.”
In hindsight, the first night isn’t that bad.
There are a few sparks, some singed blankets, a burnt toothbrush. Nothing deadly. He deposits Noctis on the fancy bed, makes sure he eats and drinks something, and lets him sleep. Prompto spends the remaining time reading the survival guide, but he doesn’t get past Chapter 3: What to do if You’re Electrocuted, before dozing off on the couch.
He wakes to the fire alarm.
Prompto’s heart seizes as he launches himself upright and dives for Noctis’ room. Which is where he sees, to his future nightmares, Noctis engulfed in flames.
He’s also sitting up, stretching and yawning, completely unfazed nor harmed by the fire eating away at his pajamas and bed.
“Oh, hey Prom,” Noctis says stuffily, voice barely carrying over the blaring alarm that he doesn’t seem to notice. “I think I have a fever, could you grab me some meds?”
Prompto does not grab the medicine, opting for the far more important fire extinguisher just inside the door. He’ll think about why it was so conveniently placed later. For now, he douses the bed in flame retardant, much to the displeasure of its occupant.
“Hey!” Noctis sputters, shielding himself with his burnt, crumbling blankets. “What’s the deal?”
Thankfully the flames hadn’t spread far, so the fire dies after just a couple sprays. “Dude! You were on fire! That’s kind of a big deal!”
Noctis, to his continued bafflement, shrugs. “Yeah, that happens,” is all he says.
“…So spontaneous combustion wasn’t a joke.”
“Nope.”
“Why was spontaneous combustion not a joke?” Prompto pleads. He holds the fire extinguisher like a life raft. In the background, the fire alarm finally stops screeching.
Another shrug. “I have a fever.”
“You burst into flames when you have a fever,” he reiterates, because he wants confirmation that he’s understanding this correctly and this isn’t some odd hallucination. Maybe he fell asleep on the doom-book and it cursed him to insanity.
“Yeah, sometimes,” Noctis says through a yawn. “Or I freeze stuff if I get chills.”
So that’s what all that thermal gear in the Doomsday Room was for. Prompto heaves a sigh, finally releasing his death grip on the fire extinguisher and setting it down. “Great,” he says, wearily. “Thanks for the warning, I guess.”
He ushers Noctis into the bathroom to shower the ashes and extinguisher powder off, reasonably assured the most pyromaniac tendencies would be hard pressed to catch water on fire. Meanwhile, he changes out the bedding. Turns out the mattress isn’t a normal mattress, instead covered in thick flame-resistant Kevlar-type material. The flames got the blankets and a couple pillows, sure, but didn’t so much as singe the mattress. Prompto would be impressed if this wasn’t about his best friend casually catching on fire.
When Noctis shuffles out soot-free and in new pajamas, and climbs back into his freshly-made flame resistant bed, Prompto presses fever reducers into his hand without a word.
Of course, What to do if Your Charge Catches on Fire wasn’t until Chapter 6.
The fire extinguisher becomes a constant companion over the next day or so. Prompto honestly loses track of time as he swaps between the adrenaline rush of the occasional bouts of arson, lightning strikes, and localized blizzards.
Yeah, despite the warning, the literal snow falling from the ceiling still caught him off guard.
“Noct, buddy?”
“Yeah?” comes the barely coherent mumble from the mound of blankets. Prompto had been doing his best to keep up with the cold medicine, but the prince still ended up miserable with chills. And, as he had predicted, abnormal weather was to follow.
“It’s snowing.”
“Yeah?”
“Inside.”
There’s a pause, and the mound shifts to reveal a bleary blue eye. Noctis stares at the cascade of rather beautiful, if seasonally obtuse and oddly located, snowflakes falling all around them. “Oh.”
Prompto just sighs, and puts on a thicker coat. Noct, apparently immune to his own magical chaos, just snuggles further into his blanket pile and dozes off.
“You’re adorable,” Prompto coos softly.
Noctis stirs, “Hm?”
Six, he’d thought he was asleep. “Nothing!” Prompto blurts hastily. “Just go back to sleep. I’ll turn the heat up to melt the snow,” and flees to do just that.
He is definitely not yet ready to confess his feelings.
Scratch that, maybe he should just confess before he ends up magically deep-fried or something.
Prompto had lost both eyebrows (of which Noctis blearily apologized, summoned an elixir, and smacked him in the face with it. Prompto didn’t know elixirs could regrow hair, and frankly doesn’t know what to do with that information other than to be thankful) in a prolonged coughing fit, which Prompto had mistakenly come closer to give him a glass of water. Turns out Noctis can light water on fire, if fevered and mildly high on cold medicine.
If only the damn survival guide had told him that.
The book also hadn’t deigned to tell him that anything remotely metallic would act as a lightning rod if he was in the same room as Noctis whenever he sneezed. This included things like buttons on his pants, his belt buckle, or shoe clasps. By the second or third zap, Prompto had stripped down to his knickers and pillaged the closet for a set of pajamas. Entirely fabric and non-electrifiable pajamas with no metal to be found.
Know what else had metal in it?
The survival guide.
Because some poor electrified fool had decided reinforcing it with a metal spine was a good idea, along with printing it in an entirely flammable material. No wonder the thing looked like it had climbed Ravatogh. Hell, it probably would have had an easier time if it had. Why on Eos hadn’t someone made a digital copy yet? If the damn thing shocked him one more time, he was going to chuck it out the window.
…Anyway.
Taking care of Noct, when not dodging bouts of flame and lightening, wasn’t actually that bad. The prince slept most of the time. Of those few hours each day that he was conscious, he just zombied around the suite and ate or drank whatever Prompto put in his hands.
Which was hilarious, because most of the time it was vegetable soup. Noctis’ liquified arch-nemesis.
“Poison,” Noctis glared at it the first time he’d handed him a bowl.
“Delicious, healthy poison,” Prompto had replied, deadpan, and passed him a spoon.
Noctis had sniffled, eaten the soup as sulkily as possible, and said, “At least I can barely taste it.”
Prompto, who had with no shame eaten two bowls of it himself, thought Noct was severely missing out. And also a drama queen.
Like the next day, when he flops over the end of the couch and proclaims:
“I’m dying.”
Prompto pokes him into a more upright position so his back doesn’t hurt later, and rolls his eyes. “You’re not dying.”
“The light, I can see it.”
“You mean the fire you started earlier?”
Noctis looks briefly over his shoulder to the lingering embers of what used to be the coffee table. “No, the other light. The tunnel one.”
“Well, don’t go towards it,” Prompto says, pulling out another blanket (the eighth one to be sacrificed so far) to cover him. The fabric flopped over the prince, not unlike a burial shroud. “I’m not losing my best friend-“ love of his life, “-to a cold.”
A pained, whiny groan escapes from beneath the blanket.
“Besides, think of all the videogames you’d miss,” Prompto goes on.
An inquisitive mumble.
“Or the fishing.”
A muffled gasp. “Not the fishing—"
“And do you really wanna leave me on my lonesome?” The words come out without him meaning to. Being alone is Prompto’s worst nightmare, but being without Noct? He can’t even imagine it. Prompto quickly recovers and continues, “I’d probably become an evil mad scientist and try to take over the world with a robot army spawned from forbidden ancient technology all in the futile pursuit of immortality.”
The blanket shifts, and Noctis peers at him dubiously. “That is… oddly specific.”
“Don’t chance it, Noct. I don’t think I could pull off the evil scientist look.”
Noctis snorts. Or tries to, given his limited airways. “You’re the least evil person I know.”
Prompto has totally cried over chocobo documentaries before, so Noctis may have a point.
“Won’t have to worry about that anyway,” Noctis continues, snuggling back down into the couch with a cough.
“No?”
Noctis pats him sleepily on the arm with a fevered hand. “Not gonna… leave you ‘lone,” he says, and promptly conks out.
And if Prompto said that statement didn’t turn his heart to mush, he’d be a dirty liar.
“Thanks, Noct,” he says softly, allowing himself to run a hand through the prince’s messy locks, just once.
By the third day, Noct’s fever was finally broken. Mostly. There are still a few small sparks whenever he sneezes, and Prompto still feels static tingle across his skin sometimes. The survival guide, which had proven to be more of a hazard than anything, had been thrown in the Doomsday Room to await its end. Or, more accurately, the digital scan Prompto was going to demand that would make it obsolete. Semantics.
Anyway, the fever’s gone, which Prompto had hoped would mean the end of the magical chaos.
But alas...
“Hey, Prom?”
“Yeah?”
“The toilet’s frozen.”
Prompto pauses from where he’d been sweeping up the charred remains of a chair. “…Again?”
“The shower, too.”
Prompto sighs, and goes to check. Sure enough, Noctis’ bathroom is a winter wonderland that would make Shiva proud. Small flakes of snow rain down from the frosted ceiling. Icicles of water spear down from the shower spout and into a solid basin of frozen water. The toilet, as Noct promised, is encased in a block of ice.
More importantly, Noctis is shivering. “Go warm up, dude. Use my bathroom if you need to. I’ll clean up here,” Prompto says, though he’s not sure how exactly to do so. This was way worse than the last time. Maybe a hair dryer, or a bunch of heat packs would help thaw it all?
“Sorry, Prom,” Noctis says, then holds his hand out. There’s a glimmer of light, and a sword drops into the prince’s grip, which he casually hands over to his friend. “Here, try this. Maybe you can chip the ice off?”
“Uh,” Prompto says, staring at the honest-to-gods sword he’d just been handed. “…Thanks?”
Noctis nods, satisfied, as if giving someone a deadly weapon to fix a toilet was a normal occurrence.
After ushering Noctis into the other guest bedroom that he’d claimed as his own and spending a half an hour chipping away at Noct’s frozen porcelain throne with what is probably a very expensive and magical heirloom sword from the Armiger, Prompto is, admittedly, tired.
When he goes to his room to faceplant on the bed for a quick nap, however, he finds it is already occupied.
Noct, self-proclaimed prince of sleep, has stolen his bed. He’d pilfered his pillow as well, which he holds close to his chest with both arms curled around it in a hug. Noct is snoring (loudly, because what even is lung capacity with a cold?) with his face pressed into the soft cushion.
Prompto does his best not to coo. “If you keep doing cute stuff like this, I really will have no choice but to confess my undying love for you.”
Except he says the words too loud, and Noctis stirs. The snoring cuts off, and Noct squints up at him with one eye. “…Did you say something, Prom?”
Crap. “Nope,” Prompto says quickly, hoping he doesn’t look too panicked.
Noctis is thankfully still too hazy with sleep to notice. “Huh… Swore I heard something about undying lo—”
“AnyWAY,” Prompto’s voice jumps an octave in his desperation to change the subject. “How are you feeling?”
Noctis considers this. “Comfy.”
Prompto smirks, amused. “Yeah, it is a pretty nice bed.”
A pause. “I stole your bed, didn’t I?”
“Eh, mi casa es su casa, and all that,” Prompto shrugs. “Or, wait… the Citadel is your house, so… hm. My borrowed bed is your borrowed bed, buddy. Snooze away.”
Prompto doesn’t mind camping on the couch for now. It was one of the few pieces of furniture in the living room not damaged or burned. Besides, it would be a good opportunity to wash the bedding in Noct’s room. No matter how often Prompto switched out the blankets, there always seemed to be more with scorch marks or holes seared through them.
Noctis doesn’t look like he really wants to move, anyway. Still, he open his mouth to argue, only to devolve into a fit of coughing.
Prompto grabs the nearest fire extinguisher just in case, but thankfully there are no flames this time. Instead, Prompto rubs soothing circles on Noctis’ back ‘til the worst of the coughing eases. “How about some tea?”
Noctis nods, still trying to recover from his dubious lung capacity, and Prompto departs to make some tea. He’s quick about it, not quite trusting Noctis to not set things on fire yet, getting back to Noctis within a few minutes with a tray holding a small kettle and a couple cups.
Noctis is where Prompto left him, and thankfully not burning anything. Instead, he looks like he’s thinking hard about something.
“…Are you sure you didn’t say something to me before?” Noctis ponders.
Oh crap. Abort, abort! “Maybe it was a dream?”
For some reason, Noctis cheeks redden. Prompto shifts the tea tray to one hand to reach forward with the other and touch his forehead to feel the temperature. “You feeling fevered again? You look a little red.”
Noctis’ face reddens more as he gazes up at Prompto, but he says, “No, I’m fine. I… Thanks for taking care of me, Prom. Not everyone would stick around after being set on fire, electrocuted, or frozen to a chair.”
Yeah, that hadn’t been fun, but: “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he grins, then adds softly, “Besides, you know I’d do anything for you, Noct.”
And wow, now Noctis’ face is really red. Maybe the fever is coming back, after all. Before he can say anything, Noctis buries his face into his pilfered pillow, oddly flustered.
“Noct?” Prompto pokes the pillow curiously. “You okay?”
Noctis resurfaces, and instead of answering the question, says: “Once I’m not, like, dying—”
“You’re not dying, dude.” Prompto says once again, amused.
“Once I feel like a normal human being again, I want to… talk to you,” Noctis says, a bit awkwardly, made all the worse by his stuffy nose.
“…We’re talking right now?” Prompto wonders, confused as to where Noct is going with this. “You know you can tell me anything, whether you’re a walking magical being of chaos or not.”
“I…” Noctis bites at his chapped lip and looks away. “I know, I just… don’t know how to say it.”
Prompto thinks about how much he wants to tell Noctis his feelings, yet somehow avoids saying anything like he’s terrified the words will bite him. “I know what you mean.”
“…You do?” Noctis asks, looking hopeful.
“Yeah, I do,” Prompto smiles at him, nerves fluttering to the surface. Maybe he should just say it: Noct, I love you. There, just four short words. So why are they so hard to say aloud? “I… You’re right. Maybe when you’re feeling better, we can talk. There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, too.”
“Okay,” Noctis says. He’s still coughing a little, but he looks content.
Prompto brings the tea tray back around, pleased to see the kettle had kept it plenty warm. He pours out two cups. “How about some…”
Just then, Noctis sneezes harder than he ever has before.
Prompto’s vision goes white, and he only has a spilt second to panic before it crackles back into existence in the form of small crystalline fractals. As they dissipate, Prompto comes to the rather alarming realization that he is not in the suite anymore. Or Insomnia. Or Lucis.
Or the entirety of Eos.
Why is he so certain?
That would be because he is currently floating weightlessly in a star-filled void facing the incredibly large and terrifying god of war.
Bahamut blinks down at him. If he’s surprised to find a random human teleported to the Astral plane right in front of him, his mask hides it well.
Prompto stands (floats?) there, his brain mis-firing as it tries to figure out what the hell is happening. When it provides no answers, Prompto decides: yolo, and holds up the tray of tea that got teleported there with him.
“…Tea?” Prompto offers to the Draconian.
Bahamut stares at him for a long moment, then shrinks down in a showy flash of light to a less massive, but still absurdly tall, height of five meters. He takes the tiny teacup daintily between the tips of two metal-clad fingers, and sips it directly through his mask. Prompto, not knowing what else to do, drinks his. He idly wishes it were something stronger instead.
“Have you ever tried to tell someone you love them, and they sneeze you into another dimension?” Prompto asks the god casually, after a few peaceful minutes.
When the Astral speaks, his voice rattles the teacups. “Could be worse.”
“How so?” Prompto dares to ask.
The god looks askance, eyes oddly embarrassed behind his metal mask. “…How do you think the Disc of Cauthess was formed?”
Oh.
Before he can think too much on a god sneezing a meteor, a hand bursts forth from behind him in a familiar crackle of light. He yelps as it grips his shoulder, yanking him backwards in a flash of white. The last thing he sees of the Astral plane is Bahamut watching him, thoroughly amused, with the teacup in hand.
“Prompto!”
Prompto spins around, still blinking lights away from his vision, to find himself back in the same room he’d vanished from. Noctis is there, looking terrified, with both hands gripping Prompto’s shoulders.
“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?!” Noctis’ panic sounds like a croak, his coughing worsened by his worry. Prompto hurries to reassure him.
“Noct, it’s okay,” he says. “I’m fine!” Fine is a relative term, as he can practically feel the countdown to his next existential crisis. He’d just had tea with a god.
“You were so deep in the Armiger that I couldn’t find you at first!” the prince carries on anyway, horrified. “I didn’t know it even went that far! Or if there was air in there!”
“That was the Armiger?” Prompto cuts off Noct’s worry-filled rambling, both wanting to distract him and genuinely curious.
“Yeah,” Noctis says, shakily. He takes a few calming breaths. “But it’s not like I knew people could be sent in! What happened in there?”
“Uhh…” Bahamut still has his teacup. “Nothing much. It was very… spacey. Lots of stars.”
Noctis eyes him doubtfully. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Never better,” Prompto says cheerily, despite feeling anything but. He’d been inside the Armiger, which was connected to the Astral plane, and there was a god chilling there. They had tea together. “I’m gonna have to make you some new tea, though. A god drank most of it.”
“…What?”
The teacup reappears on his bedside table the next morning, along with a note.
“Thank you for the tea. Good luck.”
The rest of the week passed without much incident. A few sparks of fire or flakes of snow here or there, but nothing drastic like getting teleported to tea time with a god. Noctis’ coughs and sneezes dwindle until there’s nothing but a few sniffles. The cold, thankfully, seemed to be one that hit hard for a few days, then lost steam. By this time next week, Noctis probably wouldn’t have so much as a red nose to show for it.
Prompto, on the other hand, was worn out. A week of caring for the walking (or sleeping) embodiment of magical chaos was rather stressful. Exhaustion dragged at him, and Prompto felt like he needed another week off to make up for the one he just had.
Alas, being stuck in the same suite with a sick person was basically asking to catch it.
Prompto sniffles.
“You okay?” Noct asks, his nose gloriously clear for once.
“Yeah,” Prompto replies, as they wait for Ignis and Gladio to show up. He’d sent a message giving them the all-clear to enter now that Noctis wasn’t sick anymore. “I think I caught your cold, though.”
Noctis makes a concerned noise. “You can stay here, if you want. I’ll take care of you this time.”
Prompto can’t help blush at the thought, and fakes a swoon to cover it. “Doted on by my very own prince charming.”
Noctis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s only fair. You stuck with me while being occasionally caught on fire or worse, so it’s my turn to care for you.”
“I’d stick with you no matter what, you know. You’re important to…” To me, he almost says. But he still doesn’t know if Noctis feels the same way. They haven’t had their promised talk yet, so Prompto hasn’t had the chance to voice his feelings.
“…to the Crown?” Noctis finishes his sentence with the worst assumption he’s ever heard. With it, Prompto decides that it needs corrected immediately, regardless of his nerves.
“To me,” Prompto corrects, staring Noct in the eye and daring him to refute it. “You’re important to me.”
There is no fever to excuse the blush that grows on Noctis’ face this time.
“I never could manage to get the words out,” Prompto continues, speaking past his heart hammering in his chest. Noctis is staring at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “But I really like you, Noct. Like, like-like you. A lot. And no amount of magical chaos is going to change that.” He smiles, relieved to finally say it aloud. He falters slightly, to add: “Unless, uh. You don’t like-like me, then that’s fine. I get it. You—”
“You mean to tell me we could have been dating this entire time?” Noctis interrupts, voice both fond and disbelieving, and a bit like he just won the lottery.
“W-what?” Surely he misheard. Noctis wants to date him?
“I’ve had a crush on you for months, Prom,” Noctis says, confirming his very dream come true. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, but it looks like you’ve beaten me to it.”
“You…” Prompto starts, still shocked. “You like me?”
Noctis smiles and leans in, close enough for Prompto to count every eyelash, to feel the wisps of his hair brush his cheeks. The press of lips against his own that follows is every bit as wonderful as Prompto had imagined, and all too brief.
“A bit more than like,” Noctis breathes.
“You… love me?”
“Yeah.”
“And I love you.”
“Seems like it.”
By this point, Prompto’s grinning like a love-struck idiot, mainly because, well, he is one. And Noctis, too, apparently. “And we’re both just dense.”
Noctis laughs. “Thicker than the Crystal.”
Prompto laughs too, and they’re both still pressed close and giggling when a knock comes from beyond the door.
Ignis enters, followed by Gladio. The advisor merely raises an eyebrow upon seeing them squished together on the couch. Gladio just rolls his eyes, muttering something suspiciously like “it’s about time,” under his breath.
“Noctis, I’m glad to see you’re feeling well,” Ignis says, then addresses Prompto. “Thank you again for helping, Prompto. Your aid was much appreciated.”
“No problem,” Prompto sniffles a little, not noticing how the lights in the room flicker. “What was up with that, anyway? The whole can’t-be-connected-to-the-Armiger thing.”
Noctis frowns at Ignis. “You never told him?”
“I…” The advisor stops short, perhaps realizing he did a terrible job at the whole advising thing. “…Didn’t. I told him it could be potentially dangerous, that Gladio or I couldn’t stay because of the Armiger, and gave him the manual.”
“…Most useless survival guide ever, by the way,” Prompto grumbles, sniffling again.
“But I did not tell him why having access the Armiger was an issue,” Ignis concludes, his brow furrowing at he takes note of the light bulbs that flare briefly.
“That’s kind of important,” Noctis chides, then finally explains. “Getting sick while connected to the Armiger amplifies a person’s magical abilities. You saw that with me setting fire to stuff, electrifying things, and causing blizzards. Anyone connected to the Armiger is the same. If they get sick, they discharge magic.”
“So we needed someone without the Armiger to look after Noctis, because if you caught the cold afterwards you wouldn’t fling magic everywhere,” Gladio adds. “Kind of like a chain reaction.”
“Oh,” Prompto says, at length. “So that’s happened before?”
Noctis snorts. “Ignis randomly enchants stuff when he’s sick.”
“Flaming kitchen utensils are not great for cooking,” Ignis adds wryly, “Though it is easier to handle than Gladio cracking the floors everywhere he walks.”
“Not a good idea in a skyscraper,” Gladio says casually.
Well that’s terrifying. No wonder they’d been so worried. “Well, I think Noct gave me his cold, so it’s a good thing I’m not connected to the Armiger, then.”
Prompto could feel the tickle growing in his throat, a tell-tale sign that he’d be coughing and miserable by this time tomorrow. He kind of wanted to preemptively burrow himself in blankets with an entire kettle of tea. If Noctis hadn’t already caught the cold, Prompto would never be sitting this close for fear of passing it on.
“Actually…” Ignis begins doubtfully, which is never a good sign. He’s eyeing the lights, which continue to surge every time Prompto sniffles. “Are you certain you aren’t?”
Prompto frowns, and is about to deny the claim when he notices the sudden oh crap look on Noctis’ face.
“Noct?” Prompto questions.
“Uh,” the prince actually looks a little panicked. “You… might be?”
“What?!” Prompto, Ignis, and Gladio all exclaim at once. The volume makes Prompto’s voice crack and he coughs, and several nearby light bulbs flash brightly and burst.
“So… Remember when I sneezed you into the Armiger?” Noctis says nervously.
“When you what?” Ignis and Gladio ask in horror.
“It was an accident! And I didn’t think it actually connected you!” Noctis tries to defend himself to an increasingly panicked Prompto.
“What do I do?” Prompto asks worriedly. His Crownsguard training hadn’t touched magic lessons yet. “I mean, I don’t actually know any magic stuff! I just shoot guns and machinery!”
“Not just guns or machinery, anymore,” Gladio rumbles warily.
“Being sick will amplify any of your magical abilities,” Ignis says, slowly backing away. “Even if you yourself don’t know them yet.”
Oh, that’s not good. Not good at all. “Like what?” he dares to ask.
“Something with light, maybe?” Noctis ponders, surprisingly calm. “You’ve popped about three light bulbs so far.”
Prompto looks warily around to find that, yes, a few lights around the suite had indeed gone dark.
Okay, that’s not too terrible. Breaking a few bulbs wasn’t nearly as dangerous as some of the chaos Noct had been capable of. Maybe this wouldn’t be that bad—
Prompto sneezes.
A gravisphere forms in the kitchen.