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It's not the first time they've been running late to a gig (whether because of miscommunication, a certain blonde guitarist or, as in this case, excessive traffic) but it's the time which has Gladio feeling the most antsy: partly because of the past week's non-stop stormy weather, putting a damper on everyone's mood in general, and partly because he'd never expected to be playing at their current destination again so soon.
Not after Noct had sworn to never step foot in the venue again (with good reason: the manager had been a total sleazebag) - but then, Noct isn't around right now… which is admittedly probably the deeper reason behind Gladio’s current frustration.
After their front man’s unanticipated disappearing act, the band has been struggling to pick up much work - leaving them with little choice but to accept this offer: things just aren't the same with a missing bassist and a backup vocalist carrying the songs. Ignis tries his best to cover the gap and they're getting by, but the depth of sound is definitely lacking. The venues who know nothing about music won't even give them a chance (no bass ‘must’ equal no good), which severely limits their gigging options.
So here they are, running late, crawling along a worn-down road towards Insomnia University’s satellite campus in Cleigne.
Frowning out at the view from the van's window, as Ignis tuts and shifts the vehicle back into drive (at least their keyboardist’s timings mean their band is never actually late for anything), Gladio tries not to pout at the incessant darkness which blankets everything. The low drone of the radio, updating everyone on yet more clouds on the horizon, blends into one soft murmur with the rhythmic thrum of raindrops against the glass.
Maybe calling Noct's absence a ‘disappearing act’ is unfair - it isn't as if Noctis himself had been planning on it; their bassist had been caught just as off-guard as the rest of them.
After all, who could've predicted Noct's estranged uncle (a confusingly multiple number of times removed) would turn up out of nowhere - when he hadn't even shown face at Noct's dad's funeral a month prior - and kidnap their band’s proverbial prince? With inappropriate flair, the burgundy-haired character (obviously dyed, given his age) had swept into Gladio and Noctis' shared apartment, in the middle of the night, announced some preamble about Noct needing to be educated in the family business, then bustled his flustered nephew outside and into the most ostentatious-looking limousine Gladio had seen in his life: it had been waiting imposingly on the kerb looking more crystal than car, leaving Gladio even more speechless than Noct’s uncle’s theatrics, and it was all he could do but watch dumbstruck as his childhood friend was herded onto the backseats and driven away, out of sight.
Since then, Noct has been radio silent - no texts, calls or emails, no replies to any attempts at communication - with no indication of where he is or when he'll be back. It’s no wonder Gladio’s so pissed about it: worry compounded with guilt, for not stepping in and saving Noct that night, along with a feeling of uselessness… How else is he supposed to cope except annoyance? Ignis and Prompto are being more positive - still casually mentioning Noct in conversation - but Gladio can’t bring himself to share their optimism.
He doesn't blame Noct, not really, but he definitely isn't happy with the guy either.
The band's van finally rolls to a stop, amidst the driving patter of raindrops around them, and Gladio blinks up at their destination's name lit up in neon across the building’s façade: ‘Mindflayers’.
In all honesty, it's a pretty sweet-paying venue and their group should be grateful for the gig regardless of their current dire situation; the student body ensures a steady audience, the playing hours are reasonable and the staging is pretty much perfect.
The only downside is the absolute sleazeball of a manager.
“A trifle later than desired, but if we're quick on our heels there'll be no crying over spilt milk,” Ignis sighs, killing the engine and seamlessly exiting the vehicle.
“That means we'd better hurry our butts up,” Prompto turns and grins at Gladio from the passenger seat before following suit, pulling up his collar as he clambers out.
Gladio rolls his eyes fondly, unbuckling his seatbelt, and mentally prepares himself to ‘be good’ when they get inside: maybe it's better he keeps his trap shut entirely rather than worry exactly about controlling his tongue.
Thankfully, the downpour has lightened to a drizzle - although still constant - and Gladio's able to unload their equipment with minimal inconvenience. The venue has instruments for bands to borrow, but there's just something different about playing on their own kit, even if it's a pain in the ass to lug it all around with them - especially Gladio's drum case.
Even if there's arguably no perceivable difference in sound (to the average listener anyway, and who in their audience is listening intently anyway when they're busy dancing), there's something to be said about familiarity - besides which, Gladio's bass drum has ‘Crownsguard’ proudly emblazoned across the front, in a bold graffiti-esque pattern to match the tattoo covering his torso; both of which cost a mini fortune, so hell if he isn't going to show the both of them off at every chance he gets.
“Could really do with this rain just stopping already,” Prompto sniffs, hefting his guitar strap a little higher on his shoulder. “Can't even remember the last time I saw the sunshine,” he finishes glumly, looking like a dejected puppy with his carefully-gelled hair drooping slightly at the tips.
“On the bright side, we've not far to walk,” Ignis doesn't disagree, locking the van and immediately leading the way across the parking lot.
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Gladio gruffs, honestly unsure if he'd rather stand in the rain for longer or stand in front of the club's manager sooner.
Their being late and Ignis’ insistence to hurry doesn't give him any chance to debate the matter, however.
The tarmac glistens beneath the artificial lights, water splashing loudly to echo swift footsteps and the wheels of Gladio's case rolling over the uneven ground. Despite being 6’6” and almost pure muscle, even Gladio finds it troublesome avoiding the puddles - especially the less obvious ones - an annoying worry niggling inside that, because they're in a rush, he's going to get one of his wheels caught in an unexpectedly large pothole and his precious drums will fall and somehow break inside their case.
As it turns out, Gladio's wrong.
Unfortunately, he's not entirely wrong.
“Shit!” Gladio's exclamation catches the attention of both his bandmates, who had just made it to the covered shelter above the back entrance, the two of them immediately whirling around to see what had caused it.
They're just in time to see their drummer stumble and dive sideways to catch his toppling case - which, against all odds, had caught on a hidden pothole - and, with his cymbals in a bag on his back, falling at an awkward angle with his left ankle folded beneath him.
“Big guy!” Prompto’s eyes widen, dipping his shoulder to allow Ignis to relieve him of his guitar, hurrying back across the tarmac to where Gladio kneels wincing on the ground.
Ignis is only a moment later - instruments safe and dry against the wall - splashing back across the parking lot to add a voice of calm to assessing the situation.
“Are you all right?” Ignis says gently yet firmly, leaving no room for Gladio to casually brush him off.
With a little effort, Gladio shifts his weight onto his right side as Prompto quietly rights his drum case. Honestly, it hurts. His ankle hurts more than it should from a simple fall, but Gladio ignores the chance of it being something serious simply because he has no time for it - they're already running late and sitting around in the rain making a fuss won't do them any favours.
“Yeah,” Gladio grunts, forcing his voice to sound more confident through volume alone. “Damn pothole caught one of the wheels - I shoulda been paying more attention.”
“Can you stand?” Ignis frowns, disconcertingly perceptive in the way he stares Gladio down.
“I can wheel your drums for you,” Prompto starts, but Gladio quickly interrupts him.
“I've got ‘em, it's fine,” Gladio would rather use the case as support; he's not entirely sure if he can answer Ignis' question honestly. “Let's just get inside,” he breathes through the pain as he hoists himself to his feet, pushing the majority of his weight onto the case - thankfully, the wheels don't give.
“If you're sure,” Prompto gives Gladio one more unsure look before glancing back towards their abandoned instruments and jogging to where they wait.
Ignis hesitates a little longer, looking as if he wants to place a hand on Gladio for support, but thinks better of it at the lack of invitation.
“C’mon,” Gladio tentatively takes a step, finding the pain manageable, and tries to mask any limp as best he can while leading the way to where Prompto has the door held open
“Perhaps I should search for some ice when we get inside,” Ignis states, unclear if he's talking more to himself or to Gladio, but Gladio isn't keen.
He's walked off ankle injuries before and he's confident this time should be no different. Even if Ignis is unconvinced, there's no time to argue: the important thing is Gladio feels like he can play and they need to hurry and get on stage. Besides which, who are they supposed to ask? The venue manager? The less time speaking to that slimeball the better
“Boys! You made it!”
As if right on cue, said manager appears at the end of the corridor, arms open wide in a gesture as sleazy as his voice.
Prompto visibly shudders at the man’s tone and Gladio swallows down the urge to copy.
“Why do we get the weird ones?” Prompto whispers through clenched teeth, gladly allowing Ignis to take charge of conversing with the suited man. “I mean, seriously?”
Gladio just grunts, giving Prompto a light shove to the shoulder, urging the blonde into ignoring Ignis’ political pleasantries and to keep moving towards the stage. He trudges closely behind, eyes set forwards as he blocks the sound of the club manager's voice from his mind.
B. Holders. Gladio neither knows nor cares what the B stands for, he just knows he can’t stand the guy. It's pretty fitting how his appearance is just as off-putting as his character: a head which looks more like a fleshy ball with lips than an actual face, and arms like tentacles, freely groping the nearest body whenever he has the chance.
Gladio has an unwelcome flashback to the last time they were here with Noct, and how he'd almost suckerpunched Holders for daring to touch Noct's ass. Fortunately for the monster, Noct was more collected than Gladio was - seemingly unphased as he sidestepped out of reach - and not letting the poison of the interaction get to him until they were out of the venue and safely away from jeopardising their reputation on the music scene. The resounding conclusion was Holders was a creep who didn't deserve their band’s time, despite the venue’s generous pay, and they'd all supported Noct on that - which is why it's such a knock to Gladio's pride that they're forced to pick up their current gig tonight.
Noctis had been the reason they'd quit coming and Noctis was the reason they'd been forced to come back.
Gladio doesn't resent Noct, he really doesn't, but he hates the whole helplessness of the situation. Money makes the world go round and struggling bands need whatever gil they can get.
Mindflayers has Crownsguard booked for a 3 hour set, running from 9pm until midnight. It's a manageable timeframe erring on the more difficult side - a test for their stamina even without the added lateness factor - but at least the crowds are usually amenable: they pay just enough attention to keep the atmosphere hyped without being critical of the performance at all. They're simply there to dance and have a good time; Crownsguard are just the background sound to that clubbing backdrop.
In short, it means Gladio can relax into their songs with minimal pressure, letting his muscle memory take over and his sticks move on autopilot. If his bass drum is less heavy than usual, no-one will comment - aside from Ignis who will insist again Gladio gets his ankle looked at straight after. Prompto won't outright say anything but in the following days will quietly, and helpfully, offer to cook or bring Gladio snacks so he won't have to stand or walk around so much.
As the night progresses, unfortunately Gladio's ankle becomes progressively worse. After the first hour, the throbbing in his leg rivals that from the speakers blasting their rhythm into his ears and chest. He’s soon trying to rest his foot completely during songs he thinks it matters least, where Ignis and Prompto have melodies which can carry the beat ok without him, or experimenting with subbing his floor drum for a different rhythm with his sticks and hi-hat. By the second hour, he's positive Ignis would be glaring holes through him if Ignis weren't positioned in front, and it's only the fact Gladio keeps leading into the next song without any breaks that keeps their keyboardist from marching over and insisting on a time out.
On their final song - right when they've reached the finishing line of their time on stage - any adrenaline from performing can't cover up Gladio's injury any longer.
It's the finale and, everything else aside, Gladio's work ethic makes him stubbornly cling to the need to finish on a bang: rather than fizzle out, Crownsguard always plays out on their highest tension song - the one with the loudest instrumentals and heaviest beat; the one with the most impressive drumming skills.
Gladio's ankle feels like it's about to explode after his solo, right before the bridge into their penultimate chorus, and a sudden white hot flash of agony has him miss a beat on the floor drum. A shot of panic to add to the pain seizes his hands for a second - long enough for him to stall in his playing - and it takes what feels like an eternity for his mind to catch up and focus on counting the beats, because shit, he's messed up, he's ruined everything, and he needs to hurry and rejoin the song with the right timing so he doesn't make it worse–
Prompto’s dropped his guitar.
Gladio notices, and it's like time stands still.
Prompto's guitar hangs loose around the blonde’s neck as he grasps the mic stand with both hands. He's a picture of an angel - a limned silhouette, dazzling green and pink in the flashing lights - as he belts out the chorus acapella to the dancing crowds below.
Somehow, in the space of those few seconds, Ignis has picked up the hint and changed his playing to something softer - as if fully intended - perfectly complimenting the impromptu change in the song. Chorus over, Prompto lifts his guitar again and slowly builds up the core melody, Ignis blending in with an increasingly more detailed accompaniment, giving Gladio the space to take a deep breath and rejoin with a simple snare rhythm. Ignis’ bassline switches to something heavier, carrying the beat, and they somehow manage to finish their final song - with their originally intended ‘bang’ - with the audience none-the-wiser about Gladio's slip up.
“Hot damn, Prompto,” Gladio crows their guitarist’s (and more than qualified stand-in vocalist’s) praises as soon as the stage lights are dimmed and they're able to start packing up. “That was some badass playing back there!”
“Some quick thinking indeed,” Ignis nods approvingly, striding across to press a hand onto Gladio's shoulder, silently signalling for him to remain seated.
Cheeks tinged pink, Prompto puffs up his chest and gives an exaggerated bow. Then he hops across the stage to join Ignis at Gladio's side.
“C’mon, let's see the damage then!” Prompto tries to remain light-hearted, but Gladio can still sense the worry in his voice. “It's not like you to mess up at all!”
With a restrained grunt, Gladio leans back on his stool and unties his bootlaces. When he tries to slip the boot off, his heart sinks. His boots are not this tight; his foot should slip right out. Ignoring the pressure from his bandmates’ watchful eyes upon him, Gladio resolutely keeps his focus on the task at hand - when he finally gets his foot out, and obediently peels down his sock for the others to see, he's still disappointingly surprised at the ugly bruise forming there.
“Damnit,” Gladio snarls, despite himself.
“We shall have to immobilize your ankle until we can find a hospital,” Ignis comments mildly. Gladio can clearly hear the unspoken “I told you so” in his tone of voice; that makes the both of them who regret not immediately putting the damn thing on ice when Ignis had first suggested it.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m an idiot.” Gladio grimaces as he rolls up his sock and contemplates forcing his foot back inside his boot. This is going to suck.
“Oh man, that can’t be good,” Prompto breathes, wincing on Gladio's behalf.
“Yeah, it’s not,” Gladio might as well acknowledge the humble pie he’s been served. “I made a bad call tonight… Being late shouldn't’ve been an excuse to ignore I got hurt," he stops to give a weary sigh. "I blame all the recent stress. Wasn't thinking straight, just that we had to get out here and play.”
“At the least the pay from tonight should tide us over until your ankle heals,” Ignis holds himself back from tutting.
“Yeah, we definitely needed you tonight,” Prompto adds, “but no way are we taking on anymore gigs until you're fully better!”
“As long as my sacrifice wasn't in vain,” Gladio huffs half playfully, closing his eyes as another jolt of pain makes his leg throb.
“It wasn't,” Ignis firmly reassures, entirely serious. “Now stay there out of the way while Prompto and I get everything cleared up.”
With the performance over, and any lingering adrenaline entirely spent, Gladio finds himself succumbing to the lightheadedness of his injury; he can't fully recall how he ended up back in the van, laid out on the backseats, or when someone (most likely Ignis) had tied a makeshift splint to his lower leg. All he knows is his ankle is on fire but his body is shivering, and his head feels like its clogged with wire wool.
“Looks like we'll be skipping our traditional post-gig Semur skewers,” Gladio thinks he hears Prompto say from the passenger seat.
“It doesn't seem as if Gladio has the appetite for them,” Ignis sounds almost perturbed in his agreement.
“Let's pick up something light from a 24/7,” Prompto continues. “Get some more painkillers while we're there. We're better off heading back to Insomnia for the hospital?”
Gladio can't keep up with the rest of the conversation, warmed by the van’s heater and lulled by both the steady rain and the accompanying beat of the windscreen wipers - he's soon fast asleep.
A loud crash of thunder awakes him, who knows how many minutes later, groggy with sleep and disoriented from the pain. Squinting through his frown, Gladio struggles to fully make out the shapes of his two friends in front through the darkness. The realisation slowly creeps up on him that he's not just feeling “off” from his stupid ankle injury, there's actually something deeper going on which has him set firmly in the direction of “like shit” territory. Gladio’s muscles ache in places completely unrelated to that night's fall and the chill in his bones is edging towards a cold sweat.
Prompto laughs, as part of his conversation with Ignis - or maybe he doesn't. It's hard to tell as another peal of thunder splits the sky, the light patter of rain from before intensifying to a downpour.
“This is some storm,” Prompto comments, his outline momentarily lit up by a flash of lightning.
“Indeed,” Ignis says, and Gladio senses his focus shift towards him. “How're you feeling, Gladio?”
There's little point hiding it so Gladio replies without preamble, “I think I'm coming down with something.”
Thunder rumbles ominously in the distance, closely followed by a jagged fork of white on the horizon.
“That might be the stress again,” Prompto twists to look at Gladio sympathetically. “We're planning to stop at the first mart we see, get you some more meds; maybe you should try and nap some more til then.”
“It's a long drive back to Insomnia,” Ignis concurs. “The more rest you can get, the better.”
“I ain't gonna argue with that,” Gladio forces a reply, though it's caught up in a fresh roll of low thunder.
He closes his eyes and wills himself to relax.
Sleep comes and goes, broken by the discomfort of being squashed onto the backseats of a van, with both a fever and a busted up ankle. The painkillers, when Gladio gets them, make him more drowsy than anything else - his brain feels sluggish and heavy, his ankle still burns through his chills, and the distinct sensation of something being missing nags at his insides. Perhaps it's the illness making him sentimental: he gets the sudden urge to text Noct.
'Effed up my ankle. What's new with you?'
Gladio unintentionally dozes off immediately after hitting send; when he wakes half an hour later, and dazedly checks his phone, he's only half disappointed to see his message is still left on unread… As usual.
Did Noct block Gladio's number for some reason? Or has he changed his SIM without letting any of them know? Or is he just being a jerk and ignoring them on purpose? None of those feel plausible, especially the last, but Noctis disappearing as he has makes no sense either. Whatever the reason, Gladio decides, he's going to kick Noct's ass next time they meet - whether that's in 10 days or 10 years from now.
He'll kick Noct's ass, then near suffocate the guy in the biggest bear-hug Gladio can muster.
…Yeah, the fever is definitely making Gladio sentimental.
Huffing through his nose, Gladio squeezes his eyes shut - his whole body pounding, aching for relief from the pain which grips him both inside and out - and drowsily falls back asleep while wondering how much longer left until dawn.