A/N: Hope you like this little angsty one-shot ;)

It began simple like most things do. Natural, like breathing or blinking. It began at the back of a school, the courtyard of what he'd like to call abandoned childhood dreams, his behind planted firmly on the ground, his trembling open mouth, and his hand, sweaty and sticky, clasped in his, in the raven boy's warm palm, the boy clothed in black with the blue, blue, blue eyes. The royal blue eyes that gazed deep into his soul and gave meaning to an existence that was satisfied by just being alive, transformed the silent child standing in the middle of a crowd to the child that brought light wherever he went.

The eyes that hold his faltering but intense stare right at this moment, looking down from above as he did once on a playground to breathe life into the dead husk of a boy. Blue, blue, blue peering at him from a withered visage, familiar, aged and so beautiful he has trouble breathing, holding inside the tearing sobs and endless waterfalls that threaten to shatter his composure because this is a face he has strived to memorize, to recreate all the lines and curves and depressions that made the whole of it and it feels like a knife in his gut, the recognition of the dooming passage of time.

Now the blue is hardened steel, the pouting mouth is a somber reminder of the old shy smile he was graced with so long ago, his jaw and his features the replica of his creator, the one who's no more and whose footsteps he's following in too closely for comfort.

And he can't deny it any longer. It began simple as most things do, however, as most things do, the intricacies of life and humanity defiled it, leading right to the point where he stands here, panting, shaking, trembling, his heart the scab he has not been able to stop scratching due to the sea of blue reminding him of everything he had once upon a time and everything he is bound to lose soon. No amount of regrets and penance will ever make up for the lost time he wasted on stupidity and denial and the fear of losing that blue focused on him, the short lived heartfelt moments they shared.

How dumb he had been, truly. In the end, none of that mattered.

He should have known he was destined to lose him anyway, fifteen years later staring up at the boy turned man then turned king. Raised not to become the savior but to become the sacrificial lamb.

The sacrifice: the awkward teenager that might seem taciturn and solemn at first glance before directing at him one of his dorky smiles and one-gil-worth jokes, the broken prince who listened to his not so subtle cries in need of reassurance on the roof of a highway motel, the man who told him he was good enough for him no matter what he thought, the man who gave him a home. The one he had believed invincible, the only thing unshakable in this ever changing world; when everything else fell apart he was the solid ground keeping him standing.

Or so he had wanted to believe.

They have come a long way from that courtyard. Which probably doesn't exist anymore, perished like everything else in this city festered with dark pestilence did. Like the darkness that took over the light and requires as payment the life of the chosen one, his life, the most brilliant light in the eternal obscurity that is the boy with numbers and lines on skin. They are not the naïve kids they had once been. He is not the twenty year old that met a girl in a mechanic pit stop and instantly fell infatuated with her because it was easier to accept his admiration of her curves and her beauty than admit his yearning for the boyish features, the manly mannerisms and figure and scent and voice, everything he has ever wanted in his short time alive. It was easier to accept her rejection, the knowledge that she would never look his way than recognize his hopeless feelings for something that never was. It was easier to pretend she was everything he wanted because the extent of what he felt whenever his eyes met blue was too great, too big, too encompassing, too overwhelming to even consider-that his every breath, every thought, every action, every laugh, every effort, every success, belonged to the boy who could crush him with one word and that was a frightening thought, scary enough to keep his sight vigilant each night.

Scary enough to keep him from looking twice at the friend by his side.

Stupid, is what he understands now. Stupid, imbecile, dumb kid. None of those things should have weighed him down. None of those things- his confusion at being incredibly, ridiculously devoted to another boy, his heartbreak he couldn't identify yet the day he walked nervously inside his house and told him he was engaged, his inferiority as a result of their different social standings, his anxiety at the idea of losing the most important thing he had ever had if he dared confess- should have stopped him from reaching out to him when he had been there, present, close and happy, when his eyes weren't clouded by the torments to come or the burden he had to carry, when he had the chance to tell him the truth and just enjoy being near him for as long as he was able. Nothing should have stopped him from showing him what he kept close to his heart before he lost him forever.

Why did it take him so long to understand this simple fact? Why did he have to witness so much suffering, loss, death and even bear losing him for ten years to realize how senseless his worries had been?

He was losing him from the start. Was going to lose him from the very first day they met.

He is losing him.

He wants to do all the things he didn't allow himself to indulge in out of fear, because of his innate anxiety. He wants to touch him, touch him more than he ever did, run his fingers over the stubble that has grown in his ten year absence while remembering the days they used to complain about not being able to grow any kind of body hair, lay palms on his belly, on his underfed body and feel the ridges of bones knowing that he doesn't care because he is much the same, a bag of skin and not much else, get to know every part of the person his soul has burned for since the moment he was born, trace his edges and the zones where he breaks and joins again, learn the scars marring his skin as a testament of the life he has lived, the struggles he has overcome.

He wants to hold him, run up those stairs and imprison him in the cage of his arms and never let him go, never let him leave his sight, tell him that he will be safe with him and everything will be fine, mold his hands to his shoulder blades and push till the illusion of bodies merging together becomes a reality.

He wants to kiss him breathless, kiss him wildly, kiss him for all the times he refrained from doing so, every time he stared at his perfect mouth and told himself it was useless hoping for the impossible- press his burning lips to all of him, to his strong, calloused hands, to the hollows of his hipbones, to his elbows and his knees, kiss the man who brought him a purpose with the repressed emotions that were always threatening to burst from under his flesh, ready to ignite him in the endless fire of his love for his best friend, his prince, his king.

He wants to love him, cradle his worn face between his hands and whisper over his dry and cracked lips all the beautiful details about him he taught himself to look for throughout the years spent together, like the way his hair looked almost ethereal in the wind, or the way he crinkled his nose adorably when he saw vegetables on his plate, or how bright his eyes got at the mention of his favorite hobby, and how terribly endearing his pissed off face when woken up early was- still is. He wants to tell him how much he means to him, how much he has always meant, how much he appreciated his notice of a lowly, common boy who was worth nothing until he met him. He wants to bury his nose on his neck, breathe in the smell that can only be his and mark him with his utter and complete adoration of all the little things that make him, that are part of him.

He just needs to say it all now before his time runs out.

And so he does.

Not caring about anything, not even the audience of two, he throws caution to the cold wind and moves to destroy the last barrier separating them both. Shatters it to dust as the kids in the school playground reunite once more when he twines fingers in greasy hair and pushes their mouths together to meet as well, violently, hungrily and impossibly sad and earnest. He tries to communicate through the joining of their lips everything he could not, everything he concealed behind sappy smiles and harmless joking and it's a mess of sweat, his own tears descending rapidly down his cheeks and his stubble scratches him but it's a perfect kind of scratch. He loves every second of it, despite them being anything but clean and a far cry from all the scenarios he pictured their first kiss happening.

They have to part for air at some point, and his voice is weak and low but desperate, as if he is the one dying and not the other way around. "Noctis…" he says his name reverently, says it more than just once, a prayer, and a petition for that word to never die on his tongue. Binding Noctis to him. And he's feeling so raw, so intense, he almost misses out on the sensation of his arms closing around him, keeping him close, and his lips, those amazing lips, peppering his cheeks, chin, his tear stained face with butterfly kisses that both warm him and freeze him.

He mimics him and in between kisses lets out a litany of "Prompto" that sound so painfully adoring and needing and so much like his own devoted tone he's left with shaking knees on the verge of collapsing. But he can't fall. Not now.

Blue finds blue amidst the deepest darkness that has ever touched the world.

"I love you."

Three words. Three simple words he had fought against then had fought to spit out on a street crawling with creatures of the night.

It's far from perfect, it's far from ideal, nonetheless it is everything he has ever wanted when Noctis' blue, blue, blue eyes fill up with tears, the old smile he recalls from ten years ago appears and he carves on him the most beautiful emotion anyone has ever told him, showed him, given him, before kissing any coherent train of thought out of his head.

"I love you too, Prompto. Always have. Why didn't you tell me sooner, silly?"

And he's happy, so so happy. Insanely happy. Holding him, kissing him, confessing him the truth, loving him. And when he tries to reproach him why wasn't he the one to approach him first-

"Prompto!"

Someone screams his name.

He blinks slowly. His whole world's visage is no longer there, in front of him. Instead, he's facing his retreating back as he climbs up the stairs, steps heavy but sure, accepting of the fate ha has been dealt. Shoulders squared, head held high.

He doesn't stop at the top of the stairs to look back at Prompto. He doesn't stop to meet his lost stare. Prompto doesn't call for him, doesn't follow after him to let out in the open air the feelings he had bottled up inside. There are no teary admissions nor passionate mingling of their mouths and tongues.

What happened was that Noctis pronounced his last goodbyes and Prompto, swallowing his bittersweet love, put a hand to his chest and bowed down to his only and last King, the same way Ignis and Gladio did next to him. He didn't feel like smiling then and he doesn't feel like smiling now as he processes the gloved hand on his shoulder, the worried gaze of Gladio and Ignis's noticeable frown.

The silence only confirms they already know what had been going on in Prompto's mind during those last moments before Noctis had to leave them for good. And for a second, he considers if they had always known what he has not risked saying to the person who matters-mattered-most. The person who is about to die.

Coward to the very end.

He laughs, broken and soft, wipes the tear tracks away with a blood covered hand.

"There was no point in making that last shot after all, I guess. It was already too late."