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Prompto's entire world suffers a nauseatingly fast 180° turn during a previously unassuming Tuesday afternoon.

A part of his brain rolls its eyes and protests the dramaticity of said statement, but Prompto waves it away and reasons that he’s allowed to be that dramatic given what’s happened, and adds -- as a footnote -- that he’s still a teenager anyway, and, as such, he gets a pass to be as theatrical as he wants.

It had been a pretty standard afternoon up until that point. School was kicking ass and taking names as always, leaving them broken and bloody -- spiritually, at least -- in a dirty alleyway at whatever small hours of the night. The last two periods of Tuesday find them in gym class as usual, with the first half spent inside the classroom and the second in the gym proper.

Their teacher -- a fairly tall, charming woman with an easy laugh and surprising strength that is also the object of affections of at least half the class -- sends Noctis and Prompto to get an old rulebook from what doubled as her office at the far end of the gymnasium, talking about how she wants to spice up the class by having them all play something new.

Or rather, she sends Prompto to get it; Noctis catches up to him after receiving a shrug as response to his request for permission, playfully bumping shoulders with Prompto as he does so.

Prompto looks around in mild fascination after unlocking the door, taking the opportunity to study a part of the school that he has never seen before. He notes the bins full of different types of balls; a half-folded volleyball net and a stack of cones in a corner; also some other items he isn’t able to place without having a closer look.

“Did she say were it was?” Noctis asks, stepping into the room, behind him.

“Probably a cabinet or shelf or something,” Prompto replies, shrugging when Noctis snorts.

“How are we supposed to find one book amidst all this mess?”

Prompto shrugs again and grimaces, staring at the haphazard piles of old exams and at the ping-pong balls that litter the floor. He spots a chess piece near the table, but is unable to find the rest of the set; Prompto takes a couple steps forward and has to go over a few coils of jump rope to get further into the room, almost becoming one with the mess when he accidentally steps on the corner of a box of checkers.

“If I fall I’m taking you down with me,” he threatens a snickering Noctis. The other -- who is still within grabbing distance, so Prompto could totally make his words a reality if provoked -- raises his hands in surrender but continues to grin.

Prompto takes a while to reach the desk and is quick to start shuffling through the pile of books and papers lying around, struggling to find a balance between being nosy and being thorough.

“What does it look like, anyway?” Noctis inquires, opening the floor-level cabinets to aid Prompto in his search.

“She said there was a tag on it that identifies it was the rulebook, and that it’s the only one. Also, the cover is green.”

“Right.”

Five minutes and a couple of false alarms later, they remain empty-handed.

“Where the hell is this book?” Prompto mumbles, standing on his toes to peek into the upper half of one of the last cabinets they haven’t messed with yet. Somewhere to his right, Noctis kneels on the floor to check a pile of textbooks.

“Do you think it, like… Gained legs and escaped? ‘Cause it’s the only explanation I can think of,” Noctis muses out loud before standing up and dusting himself off. “Nothing here either.”

Prompto strains to catch a glimpse of the ridiculously high top shelf, trying to bring whatever’s on it forward with his fingertips but succeeding only in pushing it farther back.

“I think--” he says, leaning back, “--that I see something green on this shelf here, but I can’t reach it.”

“Let me try,” Noctis says, taking Prompto’s place and bracing himself on the bottom of the cabinet to reach upwards. After half a minute, all he has to show for it is the dust covering his fingers.

Prompto goes back to trying as soon as Noctis gives up, spurned on by the increasingly insistent voice at the back of his head telling him that they’re taking way too long and coming up with all sorts of things that their classmates must be thinking that they might be doing inside that room due to the wait.

As if they didn’t have enough reasons to be suspicious about us, he winces.

“Isn’t there anything I can climb on to be be able to get it?” Prompto asks without looking away from his objective.

“The chair is covered with stuff, so unless you wanna step on some books, not really. Do you wanna go back?”

“Empty-handed? No way, we’ve been here for like ten minutes already!”

The tip of one of his nails catches on the binding of the book and Prompto bites his lip in concentration, managing to bring it a centimeter close to the edge. With victory seemingly just around the corner, it’s easy to ignore Noctis’ presence behind him, alarmingly close as it is.

It’s one hundred percent impossible, however, to ignore the hands that settle on his hips, completely out of the blue.

It takes exactly 4 milliseconds for Prompto’s mind to throw itself into the deepest gutter it can humanely find, bombarding him with images of Noctis pressing flush against him, shoving a hand underneath his shirt and the other inside his p-- nononononono bad brain! Bad Prompto!!! Don’t go there!!!

Then Noctis applies pressure, causing Prompto’s soul to detach from his mortal body -- which is still a long ways from the bottom of the gutter -- and fucking ascend to the heavens. Noctis honest-to-Six lifts him just the barest little bit, not even a full centimeter probably, but Prompto doesn’t care about details because his spirit is currently meeting all the Six and shaking their hands -- or, well, fin in Leviathan’s case -- and really, who cares about details?

Not even two seconds later, Noctis sets him back down and lets go with a mumbled curse. Prompto stumbles forward on trembling legs, unable to care about the fact that he lost the tentative grip he had had on the thrice-damned book.

Prompto clutches the bottom of the cabinet for sweet stability as his entire world spins like one of those teacup park rides, nausea-inducing and disorienting as all hells. He doesn’t even try to take a step in any direction; currently, the only thing his body is capable of doing is staying still. Prompto hopes Noctis can’t see how red he has become, cause he can downright feel his heartbeat in his head due how much blood is pooled there.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Noctis crouch, still very close, and Prompto’s body hits a ledge on the way down the gutter just like a pinball. He can even picture the score counter somewhere above his head, racking up points like a pro as his brain continues to conjure scenarios of Noctis having his wicked way with Prompto while still on school grounds.

He blames the fact that his hips are still tingling on the images passing through his mind’s eye at the speed of light. Everything is thrown out of the window -- yeet, there goes his brain! -- when Noctis puts his arms around Prompto’s thighs, just above his knees, and lifts him up for real this time.

Meeting the Six is nothing compared to meeting sweet Lady Eos what is happening I think I’m dying.

The Lady Eos laughs, soft and melodic, and caresses his hair gently before sending him back to the land of the living. Not that Prompto can consider himself alive at this point -- his brain is one hundred percent offline and quite possibly leaking out through his ears; someone call the time because Prompto Argentum is officially deceased.

Noctis grunts. “The book, Prompto,” he encourages, readjusting his grip to stop Prompto from sliding down.

Prompto’s mental faculties whirr back to life. There are klaxons blaring in the distance and everything is awash with a frightening red light as the different parts of his brain scream all at the same time in a doomed attempt to regain order.

Prompto remembers his own name and startles. “R-right!” he exclaims, finally retrieving the book. Noctis crouches again to set him down properly instead of just loosening his hold and letting Prompto slide to the ground -- not that Prompto had wanted him to do the latter, nope -- and steps away.

Prompto almost begs him to come back.

“Is it the right one?” Noctis asks, peeking at it.

Prompto stares down at the book and has to blink a few times before his brain remembers it had learned how to read over a decade ago. “I think so.”

“Thank the Six,” Noctis huffs, sparing a brief glance upwards. “Let’s get out of here already.”

“Yeah.”

Prompto’s mind is still going at at least 80% of light speed as they make their way back to the teacher, working diligently to process and file away everything that had happened, both internally and externally, in the past five minutes. Once they’re around halfway to the teacher, Prompto’s brainscape is looking less like a warzone and more like a three-times-worse version of the room they’ve just left, and he’s starting to notice the less-urgent alarms sounding out.

One of those being a nagging, insistent voice in the far back that won’t shut up no matter how many mental glares Prompto sends its way. With an exasperated sigh, he approaches the matter to hear it out. It pouts and huffs and frowns, going around in circles until Prompto starts to unravel its knots.

With this thread in hand, he realizes that as hot as Noctis just bending him over and-- beep beepbeepbeep -- would have been, Prompto wants… more.

Prompto frowns, both inside his mind and out in the real world, tugging on the thread none too gently in the hope that it will spit the rest out fast.

Oh, you know, more, it shrugs, as if it should be obvious. What I really want -- it continues, in a dreamy voice -- is something nice, you know? A big bed with soft sheets, maybe some candles to set the mood, or even some music if we’re feeling ambitious. There’d be a lot of kisses and whispers and it’d be perfect, it sighs wistfully, completely disregarding the panic building in another section of Prompto’s brain.

Prompto clutches the book to his chest in a death grip, doing his best to put one foot in front of the other and not trip on air and crack his skull on the floor, even though the second option is becoming more and more preferable with each step he gives.

This wasn’t here before, he thinks, on the edge of hysteria.

Yes, I was, the thread in his head pouts.You just never listen to me.

Prompto wonders if the past six minutes are reason enough to lock himself in a psychiatric hospital for the rest of his life.

Because, at the end of the day, he’s fairly okay with the almost uncomfortably explicit images of Noctis the gutter sends him pretty much every single day; his best friend is hot and Prompto has hormones abound, as teenagers often do -- it’s no surprise at all.

And yeah, of course he’s imagined some more cutesy scenarios of them just kissing for hours on end with the game controllers off to a side, forgotten, or of sleeping in the same bed and cuddling the entire night -- but that’s harmless stuff, reserved for when his longing for affection manages to be louder than the teenage hormones.

But this -- and he has to brush away images of Noctis holding him close, cradling his head and kissing him like he’s something precious, something to be treasured -- is not the work of the two aforementioned sections of his brain.

Prompto isn’t even fully aware of handing off the book to the teacher. He thinks Noctis looks at him with concern at some point in between the woman choosing and explaining the game they’ll be playing and the actual start of it, but he can’t say for sure either way.

Frankly, Prompto wouldn’t remember what they’re playing even if held at gunpoint.

He follows Noctis and half their class to one side of the court, trusting that whoever was responsible for the dividing of teams knows they’re pretty much an unit. No, stupid brain, not that kind of unit Six-dammit--

None of their classmates tries to get him involved in the game, which is something Prompto could thank them for for the rest of the school year. He stays back, tagging along in whichever direction they go -- when his brain processes that they’ve moved, at least -- and watches Noctis in the meantime. The other sticks close for the most part, going to the front to possibly score a point or whatever before going back to Prompto’s side.

Hey! I’m still here, dude, the thread says. Prompto looks down at it in askance. You forgot one part, it reminds him, and Prompto notices that the farther end is still badly tangled.

He gets to work on the remaining knots right away, eager to be done with that pesky thread and as such be able to tidy his brainscape a little bit more before school ends for the day. Prompto stands firm and endures the barrage of imaginary soft touches and words that are still attached to what he refuses to call his ideal -- Astrals, he wants to die a little just thinking it -- first time.

His eyes continues to watch Noctis during this. His best friend is, after all, the most interesting thing around by far, and the fact that he’s a major participant in the scenes going through Prompto’s mind doesn’t help matters any.

When Prompto finally realizes what’s waiting for him at the end of his thread, it’s already too late. Much like a train -- be it a real one or one of thought -- it is virtually impossible to stop once it’s gained enough speed, and he had stupidly provided all the time needed for it to do so.

I want--

I want him t--

Even so, Prompto tries his damnedest to bring it to a halt and stuff it back into the box from whence it came, with panic rising exponentially somewhere behind him.

I want him to love me.

Everything goes quiet as the thread falls limp, finally free of knots. His heart rate skyrockets and his breathing goes out of control, as if he had been running around like his teammates instead of standing in the same general place for the past ten minutes.

As monumental as such a realization is, a part of Prompto prods at him and says that it’s still not quite right. He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath.

I want him to love me back, he corrects, figuring that if he’s gone this far already, might as well see it through. Not that such resolve softens the blow, of course.

Dear gods, he thinks. I am in love with Noct.

Putting it into words feels like being punched in the gut.

Or, more accurately, like getting hit in the face with a ball.

Prompto falls awkwardly on his side, more due to the surprise than to the actual strength of the impact. He blinks, staring at the floor and wondering how it got so close, before the cacophony around him resolves into the worried voices of his classmates.

“Prom! Are you okay, did you hurt anything?” Noctis asks, rushing to his side and gently pulling him into a sitting position. Prompto tries hard to not spontaneously combust at his friend’s closeness in the tail end of such a life-altering breakthrough.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, then clears his throat. “I’m okay, I was just surprised,” he says, louder this time around. Noctis breathes out a sigh and his shoulders sag in relief, but the little crease between his brows doesn’t go away.

“What’s gotten into you, Argentum?” their teacher asks, lowering herself on a knee and looking him over for any injuries.

“I’m sorry, teacher, I was distracted,” he apologizes, head hanging low. The woman raises an exasperated eyebrow.

“What’s got you so out of it that you didn’t notice a ball heading right to your head?” she says with a slight huff. Prompto shrugs and bows his head even lower. “Just go sit on the bleachers for the rest of class. There isn’t much of it left, anyway.”

Prompto whispers a quick ‘thank you’ and scurries to do as told, heading for the section where the entire class had left their bags at upon entering the gymnasium. He finds his own and lifts it, sitting one level above its previous spot -- which is coincidentally right next to where Noctis’ still slumps.

His eyes meet Noctis’ when he spares a glance to the court. The concern in the other’s gaze is clear even with the distance between them; Prompto ducks his head down and presses his surely-blushing cheeks to the cheerfully yellow backpack in his lap as he works to swallow down an impending scream.

There is a rainforest’s worth of bugs making an absolute riot in his stomach. Prompto wonders if some kind of time-travelling machine had delivered a pterodactyl straight into the mess as well, because he certainly feels the urge to screech just like the long-extinct animals do in movies: positively ear-splittingly loud.

He takes a few deep and calming breaths, going back to acknowledging and filing away the myriad warnings his brain is throwing his way. The place previously occupied by that fateful thread is now filled with dozens of deceivingly colorful strings that Prompto will not touch until he gets home at the very earliest -- or ever, ideally, but he isn’t stupid enough to believe himself capable enough of escaping them for that long of a time.

Eventually, the brain-sent warnings simmer down enough for him to be able to notice the body-sent ones, which he regrets pretty fast. His heart skips a beat, stutters, then flatlines altogether when he consciously notes that his hips are still tingling.

Oh dear Astrals, no, he begs. The gods remain silent as ever. Prompto almost starts bashing his skull against the edge of the seat just above him.

It all makes sense, of course. The two requirements for the marks to appear are the realization of lo-- of l-- of feelings and a touch from the person said feelings are aimed at; and although it had taken Prompto a while to crawl out of the gutter and be beaten senseless by the former, the thread had been there and waiting ever since Noctis had grabbed his hips.

It doesn’t lessen how badly Prompto wants to die with where, exactly, the marks end up being.

Why couldn’t they be, like, on my shoulder or something? Prompto whines at his brainscape, receiving no response. A few seconds later, he is forced to concede that such a placement would definitely clash with his preference for tank tops -- he works hard on those guns, gotta show them!! -- due to the mark’s likelihood to spread from their point of origin.

Prompto doesn’t even try to fool himself into thinking they won’t spread. Every piece of media -- from movies and tv shows to magazines aimed at teenage girls -- loves to use and abuse that aspect of the marks. It’s been the subject of many science-y studies and gossip articles alike. The general consensus is that they grow according to the strength of the feeling that created them in the first place, eventually reaching some kind of limit or unseen barrier and settling.

Soap operas go crazy with it, building entire subplots out of how big or small someone’s mark is. Prompto has half-heartedly followed some in the past, laughing at the downright impossible ones -- like that one protagonist who had marks covering almost her entire left side, pining for a man who was in love with another woman as usual.

At least mine will be easy peasy to hide, Prompto shrugs. He’ll be in trouble if Noctis ever wants to go to a pool or the beach; however, knowing him, if they ever go to a bigger body of water, it will be for fishing -- so Prompto considers it a low-danger possibility. All he’s gotta do is never let Noctis see him shirtless, and pants will do the rest.

Prompto hugs his bag close to his chest and lets his gaze drift back to the court, finding Noctis with no effort or whatsoever. His friend is pretty absorbed in the game, turning his head from one side to the other; Prompto can see his lips move, but he’s too far to have any clue as to what he’s saying.

He still has no idea what they’re playing, but he hopes Noctis is winning.

Prompto lowers his head into the coarse fabric of the backpack to hide his smile at the memory of Noctis’ competitiveness. It takes some time to rile him up for real, and there’s a lot of things in which it just won’t work -- like anything pertaining to royal duties, for example -- but once it’s up and running, the other gives no quarter. Not that Prompto ever takes it lying down, obviously; the nearest arcade showcases multiple instances of him being better than the Crown Prince at one of the latter’s favorite hobbies.

The teacher says something and draws Prompto’s attention. She has the sleeves of her jersey pulled up as is her usual, showing off the branches that cover most of her left arm. When one of his classmates had asked about the thin branches and little leaves way back at the start of their first year, she had laughed and explained that her husband was a dedicated botanist, so the association had been formed.

Prompto wonders what shape Noctis’ marks are taking under the waistband of his gym shorts. He goes down a list of things that remind him of the other -- passing through fishing, video games, royalty -- and snorts while thinking about a cloud of crowns covering his hips. Finding out will have to wait until he gets home, however; Prompto isn’t mentally prepared to visually confirm their existence quite just yet. He’ll just have to change without looking down, no big deal.

The teacher’s whistle sounds off a few seconds before the bell signaling the end of classes rings, effectively dispersing the students. They all rush to their bags, with some choosing to go home right away and others heading to the locker room to change back into their normal uniform. Noctis approaches at a sedate pace, ruffling a hand through his hair and wiping a drop of sweat from his brow.

“Hey,” Noctis greets, reaching into his bag for his fancy water bottle.

“Hey,” Prompto returns, partially muffled by his backpack.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just zoning out, no big deal,” Prompto shrugs, managing to summon a quick smile.

“Alright. Are we still going to the arcade?”

Prompto curses himself for forgetting and scrambles for an excuse. “Sorry, I just remembered I gotta buy some groceries, running kinda low-- tomorrow, though?”

“Sure,” Noctis agrees without even batting an eye. Score.

“Gives you some more time to prepare to get your ass kicked,” Prompto grins.

The other scoffs. “As if,” he challenges, lifting his chin. Prompto clicks his tongue.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, then.”

“Guess so. Now get moving, we’re the last ones in this damn gymnasium.”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Ten minutes later, they’re crossing the school gates, sighing in relief at being free once more. Noctis had talked Ignis into letting him go home on his own a couple months after they had started high school, which coincided with his moving out of the Citadel into an apartment all for himself; as such, they get to walk together for a good portion of the way before Prompto goes on to the train station and Noctis continues the short walk to his building.

Prompto spends the entire train ride looking out of the window, forcing himself to pay attention to the city beyond. The threads are screaming at him, begging for a moment of his time; but Prompto knows better than to think it will be truly just a moment: if Prompto caves in to their demands, it’s very likely he will miss his stop -- and he has to walk enough as it is.

He busies himself with whipping up something to eat once he gets home. Contrary to what he had told Noctis, his pantry is fairly well stocked -- a courtesy of the grocery run he had done the previous weekend, when his storage had indeed been running low.

The papers and textbooks strewn about his desk stare at him with judgment in their non-existent eyes when he bypasses said desk to flop onto his bed. With only five months to go until university entrance exams are upon them, teachers have been revising more and more of past content, in between the usual third-year stuff.

Prompto stuffs the guilt borne from slacking off during a weekday back into its box with considerable effort, citing the need for an emergency reevaluation of his life following the day’s discovery. Plus, he’s been doing well with his studies; he’ll have to work even harder if he’s to be accepted in the Royal Academy of Insomnia, for sure, but he’s already leagues better than some of their yearmates.

It helps to have first-hand experience accounts of the exam from Ignis and Gladio. No matter what program you are trying to enter -- private or Crownsguard-sponsored -- the exam is the same; the competitiveness of the latter is legendary, however, so Prompto will have to work much harder to get in than the private program prospects -- though everyone agrees that it’s the hardest university to get into in Insomnia. Only the best of the best get to go there; of course Prompto wants to be one of them.

It helps that Noctis is pretty much set to enter the political sciences course as soon as he graduates high school; if Prompto gets accepted, they’ll have a few more years of studying together, and Prompto’s all about that. If things take a turn to the worse, however, he’s pretty confident in his ability to get into Lucis University, which is nothing to scoff at either.

So, with all of this in mind, he staunchly ignores the books in favor of sticking his hand into the Venus Fly Trap that is the mess of threads in the accursed feelings corner of his brain.

He stands off to the side and tries not to cry as hindsight ticks off every little hint that he had unknowingly ignored in the two and a half years of his friendship with Noctis, with some featured bonus of a handful from before they were even friends. All the stares and touches, all the times in which his chest felt too full around the other, the inexplicable longing he’d feel before they parted for the day or late at night while trying to sleep.

After a couple of deep breaths along with some self-motivational phrases, Prompto finally sits up and pushes the waistband of his pants down, just to drive the final nail into the coffin. It takes a few blinks and a tilt of his head for his brain to recognize the shape, and he almost laughs when it finally does.

Of course it’d be skulls, Prompto huff-laughs. More than a fishing enthusiast, more than a video game addict even, Noctis is a Lucis Caelum -- royalty, yes, but Prompto would guess that a crown would be too cliche for the universe, so instead he got part of the family crest stamped into his own skin.

It's easy to associate Noctis with skulls, even if one ignores the fact that the symbol is featured in the royal family insignia. The sight of Noctis wearing clothes that have it as a motif is by no means a rarity -- unless he is trying to blend in, that is. It ties its wearer to the Crown as surely as the color black, and Noctis’ use of both does not go unnoticed by whoever happens to be around him.

Prompto, too, has been given the honor of owning something with the Lucis Caelum insignia on it; during their first year as friends, the prince had given him a black, high-quality leather wristband as a gift for his fifteenth birthday. The glossy emblem is hidden by a thinner upper band, away from prying eyes, and Prompto had quickly taken to smoothing a finger over the engraving to consciously remind himself of its presence.

He grins upon remembering that day; Noctis had turned into a remarkable shade of pink when Prompto asked about the insignia, stammering out almost unintelligibly about how he wanted Prompto to have something of his own to mark the blonde as part of their group before turning even pinker and shutting up altogether.

With all that on the forefront of his mind, Prompto brings the relevant wrist to eye-level, rotating the band until the clasp sits on the very middle of his inner wrist again. He hesitates before nudging the upper band aside, feeling a surge of something rise in his chest as he stares at the emblem and wonders if it somehow marks himself as Noctis’.

Gods, I wish, Prompto thinks, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. The novelty of this wishing does not lessen its strength in any way, sadly -- Prompto swallows back a sigh as he presses his arm down on his face hard enough to leave spots in his eyes once it’s lifted back, not looking forward to the next few hours of living inside his own brain.

After a few minutes of staring at the inside of his eyelids, Prompto turns on his side and shifts around in bed until he manages to cover himself from neck to toe. It’s not chilly by any definition of the word, but it’s not too warm either, and he could definitely use the comfort the blanket brings -- a barrier between him and the rest of the world.

It takes some effort to successfully tuck himself in, but Prompto manages. A part of his brain slaps the rest with a 4K definition replay of the entire lifting ordeal, complete with snarky commentary and panicked screaming in the background. Prompto hurries to shut it down after having to suppress a full-body shiver at the phantom feeling of Noctis’ hands on his hips, cursing the entire day and internally crying for the gods to have mercy on him.

To stop the replay from coming back online, he feels around the bed until he finds where the hell his phone went and frees an arm from the rest of the burrito, propping it on his old chocobo plushie to make the position easier on his poor wrist. His various social media apps prove their worth as a source of distraction for the nth time -- until he gets to the posts he had already seen earlier in the day, that is.

What follows is the usual cycling through the (almost worrying amount of) games he has installed on his phone, growing progressively more bored with each of them until there’s nothing left for him to play. Then, the danger sirens start blaring.

Prompto’s finger hovers over the gallery app. Somewhere inside, a voice begs him not to do it; it dims with every passing second, inversely proportional to his rising boredom. The voice cites his earlier desire to escape from the day’s revelations, but it’s too late -- Prompto has already tapped the icon. The voice disappears, smothered by cackling goblins.

From that point, the rest is inevitable: he opens the camera folder and scrolls to the very end, waiting patiently as the phone struggles to make more than a thousand photos available for his perusal. If feels like masochism to be doing this, but Prompto knew from the start that this would happen; sooner rather than later.

He has to scroll up for a bit before he finds it. His phone may be only approaching two years of age -- yet another birthday gift, though this one had been from his parents, since his old one was falling apart at the seams -- but he had transferred most of the files from the old one to the new, with the rest going to his laptop and a few USB keys. As such, there’s a lot of photos from three or more years ago; Prompto ignores them all with an off-hand promise to go over them at some point and continues to swipe up.

A little under two and a half years into the past, he finds what he’s looking for. In February of 749, Prompto was starting high school and -- more importantly -- finally befriending Noctis. It comes at no surprise that starting at the tail end of the month, the other had become a very familiar sight in Prompto’s camera roll, as they finally became close enough for Prompto to feel comfortable enough to snap photo after photo of the Crown Prince.

He smiles upon seeing the oldest of the bunch. Noctis’ hair is a little shorter in it, it was probably cut before the start of the school year, which makes him look even more boyish than he does at the present. They had both gained a few centimeters over the years and lost some of the inherent clumsiness that comes in the heels of a growth spurt -- with help from Noctis’ regular training with Gladio and Prompto’s running.

He makes his way through hundreds of candids, selfies and memes, recalling the situation of each photo and studying how Noctis has changed over the years. Prompto settles deeper into his love for Noctis with each and every swipe, eventually becoming completely surrounded by it; his insides have all been turned into the fuzzy, mushy feelings he’d been so determined to outrun earlier, and he can’t even bring himself to regret it.

Prompto shifts in bed, accepting the fact that the rest of his day will be entirely lost to making heart eyes at pictures of Noctis and ignoring the part of him that snorts and says he’ll be doing it for the rest of his life, more like.

Now, the mystery of how Prompto will be able to stop himself from making heart eyes at the real Noctis is one that his future self will have to solve.

x

Noctis wants to bash his head against the wall until he falls unconscious.

Waking up spontaneously at six in the godsdamn morning is one of the most cursed things Noctis has ever experienced -- and even though it sadly isn’t the first time such a nightmare has happened, it still makes him want to die and bring all the gods down with him.

Oh, he can more or less pinpoint the reason his body has betrayed him so: it’s January; they’ve finally graduated from high school, but university acceptance lists won’t be coming out for a few weeks more; and most of the government is still on recess, so he has almost no royal duties to perform.

All of that creates the perfect breeding ground for a crazy sleep schedule. With school and royal training off the table, Ignis lays off the constant pestering for him to keep passably human hours -- until the aforementioned preoccupations start to loom in the horizon again, of course. The university classes usually start later in the year as well, which means Noctis will have more time to do as he pleases before tackling the monumental task that is bringing his sleep back to normal.

Future struggles aside, Noctis at least has entertainment in the form of company; he had convinced Prompto to stay over for a few days at some point in between Christmas and the New Years, and then kept whining and clinging to Prompto’s legs until the other agreed to stay just one more day --  so far it’s been two weeks, and Prompto still hasn’t gone home. Noctis is very proud of himself for that.

They’ve been binging all sorts of tv shows and video games and sleeping at progressively crazier times. Yesterday, they went to bed somewhere around 9am, with Prompto waking up a little after 4pm and Noctis staying dead to the world until 6pm. Then, they had watched a few episodes of some show Noctis can’t even remember the name of, raided the almost-empty fridge and gone back to sleep at 9pm with matching shrugs and watering eyes from staring at the TV for too long.

It hadn’t taken them very long to go back to the living room, however, and even less for them to return to bed after that. Noctis faintly remembers noticing it was almost 3am a little before they turned off the console for the night, and the rest is a hazy blur.

It’s fun to indulge in his body’s whims like that, with no fear of the consequences; it’s not fun to wake up at the asscrack of dawn one hundred percent alert and discover that sleep has betrayed him and gone off to have an affair with someone else.

Noctis huffs and turns in bed, adjusting the covers over himself. He knows clinging to the annoyance he feels will only make it more difficult to fall back asleep, but letting go is kind of impossible when every minute that passes only makes it grow stronger.

To make things worse, his bedroom still feels a bit stuffy from the way too warm night they had, so he can’t follow his usual modus operandi and meld himself to the blankets -- unless he wants them to stick to his skin with sweat, which is gross and something Noctis would not recommend.

He scowls and takes his phone from under his pillow, lighting up the screen with a tap to stare at the clock that takes most of the display. There’s half a dozen notifications from various apps -- he had kind of ignored his phone the previous night in favor of anything else -- but dealing with any of them would feel like admitting defeat on the sleep front, so Noctis returns the device to its previous spot.

He shifts until his legs aren’t covered by the blankets anymore and shoves his head under his pillow, lifting a hand to push a few strands of hair away from his face none too gently. The action reminds him of how Prompto had laughed upon discovering Noctis liked to sleep with a pillow over his head; the other had claimed it explained the spectacular bedhead he saw every time they had a sleepover.

Noctis huffs out a laugh and turns again as his thoughts shifts gears from ‘sleep’ to ‘Prompto’ without any conscious input on his part. He wonders if his friend is awake as well; briefly considers sending him a text to verify, but discards the idea with a shrug. Having Prompto stay over for so long feels a bit like a dream come true, and Noctis is hoping to beg his way into at least another week before Prompto becomes dead set on going back home.

In an ideal world that exists solely inside Noctis’ head, Prompto moves in and never leaves.

It gets lonely sometimes, even with Prompto and Ignis constantly dropping by; not enough for him to consider moving back into the Citadel anytime soon -- he’ll fight for this apartment until he no longer has a choice -- but enough to be noticed. There’s a quietness that stagnates around the corners of each room; a suppressed expectancy to come home and see signs of someone else living there with him that is never fulfilled.

Ugh, why am I thinking of this stuff first thing in the morning? Noctis asks himself, rolling his eyes and shifting restlessly. He balls up the subject and tosses it into some unknown corner of his mind, to be doubtlessly picked back up at any point in between the next few minutes or the next few days .

His mental self shuffles around his mindscape in search of something else to think about and eventually settles on the matter of university. A couple of days ago, the Royal Academy of Insomnia had announced it would divulge the accepted list some two weeks from then -- something that had Prompto biting at his nails until they were all stubby and uneven.

They’re both waiting for the results, but there isn’t really any doubts about whether Noctis will make it in or not; for starters, he’s the Crown Prince, and had had access to the best tutors as well as studying materials in the months just before the entrance exam. The fact that he’s enrolling in the private program is just the cherry on top.

Prompto, on the other hand, is hoping to make it through the Crownsguard sponsoring program, which is notoriously brutal to get approved for. There’s just too many people vying for a spot in Lucis’ most prestigious university for it to be any other way, especially given that the sponsoring program makes getting a higher education almost free -- if you don’t count the required years of service after graduation as payment, that is.

The Royal Academy has just about every major under the sun too, even though there’s a clear preference for engineering and human sciences -- with a special mention to the political sciences course, which Noctis will know intimately in a few months. Prompto had been making eyes at the photography department ever since their second year of high school; preparing himself for the exam for even longer than that.

Noctis really hopes Prompto makes it. He knows the other has the smarts for it; he had seen how hard his friend studied and was right there studying with him most of the time -- but there’s still a measure of uncertainty that hangs around the edges of his mind. He knows it won’t be the end of the world if Prompto gets rejected -- Lucis University is a good alternative, and so is the Lucian Institute of Fine Arts -- but he’s looking forward to a handful more years of being able to hang out between classes, and different campuses would throw a serious wrench on those plans.

Oh great, found another spiral just waiting for me, Noctis sighs as his brain tells him how much it’d suck to study in different universities and have possibly conflicting schedules to make him unable to meet up with Prompto to just fool around and have fun. It’d feel like the end of an era -- one Noctis wants to stretch for as long as Fate will let him.

Another peek at the clock reveals that it’s been twenty minutes or so, and that all he’s succeeded in doing is getting antsy about things that are completely out of his control. As a bonus, his bladder has started to tell his brain a trip to the bathroom would be a good idea, which would involve getting up, thus formally giving up on falling asleep, and Noctis does not want to do that.

But he does it anyway, groaning all the while. His body then says it’d be nice to drink a glass of water once his business is done -- but what’s the logic in that?? -- so Noctis drags his feet all the way to the kitchen, past a still-sleeping Prompto who has an arm half under the cushions and a blanket partially draped over his legs that is covering more of the floor than himself.

He sticks around to snicker at that sight: his best friend, all sprawled on the couch in a position that doesn’t look very comfortable -- Noctis isn’t judging, there’s photographical evidence of himself having slept in worse ways -- and probably drooling on his borrowed pillow, undisturbed by the sunlight spilling through the open doors to the balcony.

Prompto’s hair is a downright mess; his clothes aren’t much different: his tank top had ridden up at some point during the night and Noctis’ inhibitions aren’t fully online yet, so he has no qualms with ogling the milky, slightly freckled skin all on display--

Wait, Noctis thinks, effectively severing the tracks of that train of thought, letting it fall down and explode into the void. He blinks rapidly to clear out the remaining vestiges of sleep from his eyes, then squints for Prompto’s freckles aren’t black, or anywhere near that big, for the matter.

Around one third of all possible human emotions flash through his body in an instant, rooting him to the spot. He begins composing a desperate plea to the Astrals but stops halfway once his brain turns off his language center in order to have more brain power to scream on the inside but not on the outside.

The thoughts come, crashing over him like waves. Oh gods I think those are marks, one of them says. Fuck, that means Prompto is in love with someone, another cries. Well technically he could not be in love with them anymore but it’s more likely that he is, currently, in love with someone and please gods let it be me when would Prompto even find the time to stick around someone else long enough to fall in love with them oh gods--

The urge to scratch at the stars over his shoulders hits him so hard he nearly stumbles. Noctis knows it’s purely psychological, but is still unable to stop the hand that shoots up to satisfy it, or the accompanying shiver that makes its way through his body.

He wants to go closer and see if they are indeed marks. A part of him wants really bad for them to be just-- tattoos or something of the sort, even though the idea of Prompto going out and getting inked and then not telling him is just plain ridiculous; laughable, truly.

The idea of jumping off the balcony becomes more appealing with every passing second.

Noctis takes one step closer -- to Prompto, not to the aforementioned balcony, no matter how he sighs at himself for it -- then halts. It wouldn’t be very polite of him to just- look at them like that, without Prompto’s knowledge or agreement. If they are marks, and more importantly, if they are his, then Noctis has a pretty good idea of what triggered their appearance -- he doesn’t make a habit of touching Prompto’s hips, so there’s only one occasion that comes to mind -- and the fact that Prompto has kept quiet about it for almost seven months says a lot.

Just a peek, he tells himself, taking yet another step. And then I’ll go back to my room and forget this ever happened, he continues. A voice tells him he’s full of shit -- not even you believe in what you’re saying, it laughs in his face -- but he ignores it completely, walking closer still to his slumbering, unaware best friend.

Noctis forces himself to watch Prompto’s expression as a way to earn a few seconds to back out with no consequences, if rationality comes back to him at any point. He studies the steady rise and fall of Prompto’s chest in the edge of his vision, and would laugh upon finding a pool of drool to confirm his earlier suspicions if he wasn’t so busy dying inside instead.

Noctis looks to his left, completely bypassing Prompto’s exposed waist to look at his pale legs, still tangled on the mostly-discarded blanket. But staring at all that bare skin isn’t wise -- or doing his heart any favors -- either, so he directs his gaze back to Prompto’s freckled face and shoulders.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, turning his head to the direction of Prompto’s hips so that they’re the first thing he sees upon reopening his eyes. It’s now or never, he thinks; a last chance to give up and go back to bed.

When the corner of his brain usually occupied by reason remains empty, Noctis opens his eyes, and promptly gets the breath knocked out of his lungs. His lips twist into a smile and he almost laughs upon recognizing the various black shapes as skulls ; he crouches near the couch to study them more closely as hope runs in maniacal circles around him.

The possibility of Prompto being in love with someone else drops to a comfortable zero-point-many-zeros-something. If it turns out that Prompto associates another person with skulls -- it’s his family’s insignia, for gods’ sake -- Noctis might have to resort to eating his own arm out of frustration. Technically, because it’s part of the Lucis Caelum emblem, it could be his dad too- but that’s one of the most disturbing, cursed thoughts to have ever passed through Noctis’ mind, so he’ll gladly pretend it never did.

One of his hands lifts without any conscious input on his part as his eyes trace the elegant symbols, but he stops it before it can make contact with Prompto’s skin. Astrals, he wants so badly to touch them, but that’d be absolutely rude; it’s bad enough that he’s looking at them like this. Still, he lets it stay mid-air, stroking the space in between them.

He needs to find a way to bring this up without letting Prompto know he’s seen them, gauge Prompto’s interest; maybe even confess, if the courage to do so manifests. Take him somewhere a little fancier than what they usually frequent and let him know that his feelings are returned--

It comes as no surprise that Prompto chooses that exact moment to switch positions. It happens in slow motion, as cliche would dictate: Prompto scoots to the side and starts to turn from laying on his back to doing so on his side, facing the back of the couch; suddenly, there’s a lot less space between Noctis’ hand and the skull-ridden skin of Prompto’s left hip; then, even those meagre centimeters disappear.

Prompto’s whole body twitches violently, as if he had just been shocked; given the circumstances, the comparison is as near to the truth as one can get. Noctis is well aware that you’re supposed to feel something akin to an electric shock when the person who has caused marks on you touches them -- which means that if Prompto has just experienced that, then he is truly in love with Noctis.

The confirmation should make him giddy, but the situation only fills Noctis with dread. Prompto sits up in a flash, wide-eyed and confused; Noctis tries desperately to get away and only succeeds in losing the precarious balance he had and thus falling onto his butt, while begging the Astrals to rewind time, just this once.

“Noct? What-” Prompto starts, with his voice a tad slurred by sleep and a hand moving to cover the area from which the shock had originated. Noctis can see the moment in which the puts the pieces together --- how close Noctis is, the deer in the headlights expression he probably has, the fact the shock had come from his marks -- and rushes to explain himself.

“I’m sorry! I swear I didn’t mean to do that, I’d never touch your marks without permission, fuck, I’m so sorry--” Noctis babbles as Prompto’s expression goes blank. He trails off when Prompto looks away; bites his lips and waits for Prompto to get mad, maybe reprimand him for being nosy and completely inconsiderate.

Instead, the other pulls his shirt down until the marks are hidden once again and draws the thin blanket into his lap, hands twisting the fabric nervously. Noctis stays silent, letting Prompto decide whether he’ll accept Noctis’ apology or not.

“You weren’t supposed to find out,” Prompto whispers. Noctis takes up a mace and starts to beat up his past self upon hearing the distress in his friend’s voice. “It- it doesn’t have to mean anything, okay? I’m sorry y-you had to see them, I don’t wanna make things weird, it doesn’t have to change anything, I’m happy with us being best friends,” he rambles.

Noctis can only stare for a few seconds, struggling to make sense of what Prompto’s saying. It takes him embarrassingly long to remember that while the touch had confirmed Prompto’s feelings for him, the other still doesn’t know they are returned.

“No, Prompto, wait,” Noctis tries, but Prompto’s rambling had gained speed and previous experience reminds him how hard it is to get him to stop. “Prom, listen to me, you’re getting it wrong,” he continues, but Prompto shows no sign of having heard a single word as his shoulders become hunched and tears start to gather in the corner of his eyes.

Noctis panics. “Prom please don’t cry, here-- touch mine--” he says, grabbing Prompto’s right wrist and his attention at the same time. He lifts the collar of his own t-shirt with his free hand, guiding the other’s hand to the opening and pressing it to the entire galaxy’s worth of stars that had been tipped all over his shoulders and upper back by Prompto.

The touch feels like throwing a Thunder spell too close to himself and being hit by the electricity as it radiates from the point of impact. He maintains eye contact with Prompto as the shudder makes its way through his body, feeling the other’s fingers twitch against his skin.

Prompto falls silent in the aftermath, gripping Noctis’ shoulder with almost-painful force. When a full thirty seconds pass and he still hasn’t said anything, Noctis takes matters into his own hands.

“We’re even now, yeah? I touched yours, so it’s only fair that you touch mine,” he mumbles.

Prompto lets out a shaky exhale. “..What just…” he whispers, incredulous. “Did you--”

“Get shocked? Yeah,” Noctis smiles, voice soft and low.

Prompto’s breath hitches and then speeds up; Noctis feels his grip tighten for a heartbeat before Prompto’s hand relaxes, still pressed to the skin of his shoulder. “They’re…” he trails off, but Noctis still understands what he means to ask.

“They’re yours,” Noctis nods, smile growing at the sight of Prompto’s wide eyes. He leans forward and lowers his head, exposing his nape. “Go on, take a look,” he encourages.

Prompto brushes his hair to the side -- exposing the handful of stars that Noctis only knows are there because of his skills with contortionism in front of a mirror -- and lifts the shirt’s collar, exposing a section of Noctis’ galaxy. He traces the five points of a star with a finger and Noctis almost melts against him.

“You’re in love with me?” Prompto asks, so low that Noctis almost doesn’t catch it.

Noctis lifts his head and settles his hands on Prompto’s hips, meeting Prompto’s searching, hesitant gaze. “I am,” he replies, putting the barest amount of pressure on his grip to make Prompto scoot forward, closer to him.

Prompto follows easily, shifting until both his feet are planted on the ground, with Noctis kneeling between his legs. Noctis nudges the hem of his friend’s tank top up until he is able to rest his thumbs over Prompto’s marks, grinning when the other squirms.

“And you’re in love with me,” Noctis states. Prompto nods, lifting his other hand and sinking his fingers into the soft hairs of Noctis’ nape.

“When did you get yours?”

Noctis hums and pulls Prompto closer still. “I don’t remember the exact day, but it was some two and a half years ago,” he shrugs, then smirks. “You put your arm around my shoulders a lot,” he points out.

Prompto goes a little pink and chuckles. “I guess.”

“So I don’t have one particular occasion I can pinpoint,” Noctis continues. “Unlike you,” he grins.

The pink in Prompto’s cheeks becomes more pronounced. “You surprised me!”

Noctis laughs. “Now I finally know why you were so out of it that day.”

“It was totally justified,” Prompto argues with a near pout.

They have been gravitating closer to one another steadily for the past two minutes and now Noctis finally does away with the last few centimeters, tilting his head to the side and capturing Prompto’s lips for the very first time. At this point, the other is close enough that Noctis is able to encircle his waist, firming his grip as Prompto slides his hand even further under Noctis’ shirt.

They kiss once, twice, thrice-- savor the fact that they have the freedom do so now, humming and sighing happily. Eventually they part, with Noctis peppering Prompto’s jaw with a handful more kisses before they rest their foreheads against each other. Prompto rubs their noses together and Noctis laughs, drawing away and probably sporting a stupidly adoring expression.

“I think we should brush our teeth before doing anything else,” Noctis comments airily. Prompto snorts.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Even so, they make no move to stand, instead sharing a few more close-lipped kisses. Prompto sighs, perfectly content, and lets his head fall forward to rest on Noctis’ shoulder, moving his arms so that his hold becomes an embrace.

“I love you,” he exhales into Noctis’ neck, sounding completely at peace.

Noctis kisses the space just below Prompto’s ear, grinning when the other squirms and whines that it tickles. “I love you too, Prom.”

Prompto hums and hugs Noctis tighter. At this point, he’s so close to the edge of the couch that all Noctis has to do for him to fall to the floor on his ass is pull him forward just a little. But he’s a good best friend-boyfriend, so he controls himself.

“C’mon, up we go, to the bathroom,” he says, groaning when his knees protest the amount of time spent kneeling. “I haven’t been in love with you for almost three years to stay on just pecking,” he snarks.

“Impatient, spoiled prince,” Prompto snorts. Noctis does little more than shrug.

They squeeze into the bathroom and start a shoving battle for dominance over the sink, calling and contesting dibs. In the end, they start brushing their teeth at the same time, making faces at each other and at one point pretending that the foam has come from some sort of poison -- Prompto snorts and almost chokes on the toothpaste, but goes right back to chuckling once the danger has passed.

Prompto finishes first, leaning against the sink and trying hard to look disinterested. “So,” he begins, unable to hide the note of giddiness that colors his voice. “How big is your mark?”

Noctis side eyes him and spits out the foam, shooting him a smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Prompto rolls his eyes and fires back, undeterred: “When can I see it?”

Noctis snickers and finishes rinsing his mouth before drying it and mirroring Prompto’s pose. “Only when you show me yours.”

Prompto bites his lower lip and fails to contain his excitement as Noctis steps closer. “Well, you see,” he starts, looking at the ceiling as Noctis’ hands find their way back to his hips, “mine are in a kinda inconvenient place, as you already know,” he continues, shoving half his hand under Noctis’ collar as Noctis does pretty much the same at the hem of his tank top. “So I’m afraid you’re gonna have to work for it,” Prompto grins brilliantly.

Noctis pulls him forward until their bodies are flush to one another, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Prompto’s jaw. “Well then,” he says, raising an eyebrow defiantly, “in that case, I’ll be sure to do my best.”