"What—" Gladiolus Amicitia started.
"—the fuck?" and Noctis Caelum finished.
"So, yeah, that's that, I guess?" An upbeat voice chipped through the phone speaker, the two befuddled and staring at it as if it had grown another head…or a head, in the first place.
"Prompto…what the hell, man?" Noctis griped, scowling as he scratched his head in irritation. Beside him, the taller and burlier of the two made an agreeing growl.
"Look, I know that we planned to go together but Ignis and his family had to reschedule for an earlier date," Prompto, their other friend, whined. Noctis could hear someone muttering in the background and had an inkling that this was no innocent accident. "and this would be a great time for the both of ya!"
Uh, no. No fucking way.
Noctis verbally repeated the sentiment, not caring about amber eyes looking at him as he expressed his anger. "We've known each other for literally twenty years, I know you're not cruel enough to plan this. Tell Ignis I hate him and I'll murder him when I get there."
"Aww, don't be like that, Noct!"
"I'll hold him down while you scalp his face out." Gladio added.
"Now, that's a bit uncalled for." Entered another voice into the conversation – accent still as crisp as it was the day Noctis had met him all those years ago. Still, no matter how prim and settled Ignis sounded, there was no mistaking the mirth in that tone.
"Oh, just you wait and I'll show you uncalled." Noctis promised, tone flat.
Still annoyed, he ended the call and dropped his phone into his pocket. Sweat beaded his forehead and he raised an arm to wipe it off, glaring at the arid sky. Hammerhead – and the rest of Leide – was bordering on scorching and it was no comfort to Noctis' rapidly deteriorating mood. He crossed his arms, briefly contemplating on ditching the entire thing but sighed in defeat, letting the thought go. It'd been years since he had last seen Ignis and Prompto…and Gladio.
Sure, Ignis called every other week and Prompto just loved to call him every second of every day, but nothing could beat seeing his two best friends in person.
Three, his mind traitorously corrected.
He turned to watch Gladio walk to the shade provided by the gas station's roof, eyeing the way his white shirt stuck to his back with sweat, golden skin and muscle and dark hair and thick brows and Noctis swallowed.
How is it that he can still look so good after—
No.
"Hey," said occupant of his thoughts called out. "you'll pass out if you stay out any longer."
Noctis held in the need to give him the finger, just for the hell of it and because he's still pissed, but he's twenty-nine years old and he can act with maturity (Ignis' passive-aggressive comments be damned). He marched to where Gladio was, imperious. Or as imperious as he can be with his hair stuck to his forehead, face scowling, and his nice black shirt gathering desert grime.
He also missed the step up the station and trips.
Two large hands catch him and Noctis looks up at Gladio's concerned face.
His concerned face, drops of sweat sliding down his temple, brows furrowed, eyes light in the gleam of the noon sun and—and—and he's not eighteen anymore, and he shouldn't feel this way anymore.
"'m fine," He protested, pushing himself off Gladio and finding his perch by the gas tanks. He gets a whiff of a cologne and he wants to groan aloud but settles with rolling his eyes instead, arms crossed, glaring at nothing.
Not unlike the stand-in trope for teenage angst.
There's silence between them – and Noctis doesn't want to remember: he doesn't want to remember the last time he had seen Gladio, the last time he had seen those eyes taking in every nuance of his form (bright-eyed and dim, like feathers trailing on his skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake), heard the timber of his gravelly voice – raucous in their laughter and grin, doesn't want to remember the comfortable silence, the moments of action and touch rather than words.
Maybe he's being dramatic (he really is, but he denies it until his dying day) but Noctis feels a maw the size of a canyon larger than the decade between them.
Noctis turns to the other, mouth open to question but Gladio is already looking at him and, damn it, why does he feel like he's about to throw up—
"What?" He ekes out, barely managing not to squeak. The taller of the two simply stares at him for a moment before shaking his head, raising a hand to scratch at scruff by his jaw.
"I'm thinking on ditching this entire thing," Gladio begins and Noctis snorts, following his train of thought. A grin gets thrown his way and Noctis looks away. "but I'm pretty sure Ignis will find some way to have me kidnapped and escorted to Altissia, sedated if need be."
He coughs up a laugh at the thought, cuts it short as looks to the store by the station. Gladio seems to have the same idea as he throws out a small "come on" at Noctis over his shoulder, long legs leading him to the air-conditioned store…and Noctis follows.
(No, it's not because those denim jeans are fitted well enough to show off Gladio's form. No, it's simply because it was hot outside. Yes, that's it.)
He's greeted by cold air and the cashier's cheery voice and Noctis has the urge to melt into a puddle of goo, ready to worship whoever created air-conditioners for the rest of his life.
Something infinitely cooler touches his skin and he yelps, eyes flipping open and glaring at Gladio as he pulls the can away from Noctis' cheek, grinning at him (all teeth and beard and eyes).
He gives him a few choice words that would make his father roll in his grave but Gladio simply smiles cheekily, unfazed. Noctis grabs the can extended to him and bites his lip as he feels the other's fingers beneath his own as he takes hold of it.
Noctis looks at the package (of the can) and he's not sure if he what he feels is a punch to the gut or the high of jumping off a cliff at realizing it was his favorite drink.
He feels the weight of amber eyes on him again and he schools his face blank, making for the cashier. There's another person before him and stands patiently for his turn, ignoring the other's presence at his back. Noctis catches sight of himself on the glass behind the cashier – dark hair normally spiky and unruly, flat and stuck to his skin with sweat and a smudge of dirt on his cheek – and, unable to help himself, looks at Gladio behind him.
Astrals – Noctis was twenty-nine and he was still considerably shorter than Gladio, barely reaching his neck and only pride that reminded him that Prompto was an inch shorter than Noctis that formulated whatever remained of his ego.
Ten years.
Ten long years.
A decade.
That was the last time he had seen Gladio – but it seemed time had favored him more than Noctis. He had barely changed: still as broad-shouldered as ever, tanned skin and muscles from head down to Midgar, sharp tawny eyes framed by distinct lashes (an Amicitia trademark, if he correctly recalls Gladio's sister Iris). His eyes drop back to his own reflection and he frowns, pale skin and the slightly noticeable bags under his eyes.
The man before him steps back, checking on the display set next to the counter and Noctis moves on instinct. He bites his lip again as he feels something sturdy behind him and he knows it's Gladio. He doesn't look at the glass reflection and simply counts from one to one hundred, ignoring the feel of Gladio's jeans trailing under his fingers, or the fact that Noctis can smell the cologne off him and – Shiva's tits, seriously – the quiet humming from the man. He knows that if he angles his body one way and he'd be pressed against Gladio's front and, yes, he could freaking kiss a goblin when the cashier called for the next customer and basically pushes the item into the guy's hand.
Purchases done, Noctis downs the entire thing in one go and ignoring Gladio's chuckle as he sipped from his can and Noctis spies and wonders if it's the Shieldshears brand Gladio loves so much and, ugh, why does he have to be right?
He sighs again, just for the heck of it, and stares at the black convertible parked by the tanks.
"So," Noctis begins, eyeing the scratch on the plate by the rear wheel (another ten-year old mishap, and a reminder not to let Ignis drive when he was seven bottles in).
"So…?" Gladio continues, hands on his waist.
Noctis crosses his arms and turns to the other, hoping his face doesn't display the nervousness he feels at what he's about to suggest. Even when he feels really annoyed by what Prompto and Ignis had concocted, he still loves them (and he uses the word loosely basing on his current mood) and he really wants to see them…even if he had to suffer through a sixteen-hour ride with his ex.
"We can either go off on our own or we can take the old girl and get there faster." Noctis lays it out, pointed looking at the space between Gladio's eyes so he doesn't have to get lulled by the flecks of gold he knows are present in the shades of—
Ahem.
"It's fine with me," Gladio answers, voice even and soft and Noctis feels sorry for his lips now as he bites them again. "What about you, though?"
Noctis' brows furrow. "What about me?"
Gladio pauses, looks at him with an unreadable expression and exhales a short laugh of disbelief.
"After all these years, you're still the same." He says, shaking his head, a smile on his face. Noctis scowls.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means what it means." Gladio says dismissively, waving a hand. "If we go now, we can hit Longwythe Peak by sundown. We can take turns on the road."
Noctis wants to protest and drive for Galdin Quay ASAP but even he knows that would be impossible, they'd have to cut on zero sleep for that and almost an entire day ahead of their sail date. Still, the two of them on the road and stopping at Longwythe meant they would be staying the night. Noctis breathes in deep and nods, wondering why the answering smile on Gladio's face made him feel heady.
Noctis first meets Gladio when they're both seventeen and in college. Just having moved to Insomnia because of his father's job, Noctis spent the first few weeks by himself – getting used to the tall spires and the brightly-lit streets of the Crown City, the dark palettes and urban hum of a capital city, unlike the quiet air and lush fields of his home in Tenebrae. His father's job as a consul has him moving from city to city, state to state, and Noctis know that once he graduates from college, they'll leave Insomnia for another post - maybe in Altissia or Gralea, wherever the government of Lucis wants to throw them.
It takes some time for him to feel comfortable, to stave off the nights that he can't sleep through as the city lights dance across the ceiling of his dark room. He'd open the doors of his balcony and, feeling a bout of courage, sit himself atop the rails, bare feet dangling.
It was then and there that he meets Gladio and the Amicitia family, as a voice calls out to him as he stares at the city beneath his feet.
"Can't sleep?" Says the tall man at the balcony next to his, and although it's dark, there's light flooding in from the room on the other side and Noctis makes out tan skin and thick locks, gold eyes and an easy smile in swathes of light and dark.
He shakes his head, shivering a little as a cold draft swept by. "Too many lights."
"Huh," a nod and looks out the city. Noctis sees the slope of his nose and the lines of ink carving itself on the other's arms – or what he could see spiraling out from the tanktop. "new to Insomnia?"
Noctis nods, feeling no need to hide or lie. They've been here for almost a month now, and he's seen his father on friendly terms with their neighbors. "I grew up in Tenebrae. We didn't have all these lights and noise."
"Tenebrae, huh? Heard it's warmer down south. I've been here all my life." He says and Noctis takes in his words, watches as he raises a hand and scratches at the scruff by his jaw. He doesn't look older than Noctis – although his father's friends had often commented that he looked younger than he should.
Another shiver and Noctis rubs his arms and, before he knows it, he hears the other call out and turns to catch a jacket thrown at him across the balcony.
Noctis frowns. "There's no need, I can grab my blanket."
A chuckle and a wide grin. "Nah, I like bein' nice."
For some reason, that pulls a smirk to Noctis' lips. "I somehow feel you're lying."
There's a pause – Noctis wonders if he had somehow offended the other – and the other is grinning again, eyes twinkling. "Well, ya got me there. I don't just throw my jacket at strangers in the cold."
"Then why did you?" He answers back.
A small smile, never breaking eye contact. A secretive look. "Give that back to me, someday, and maybe I'll tell you. Over coffee. Or beer, your choice."
And Noctis may be seventeen, a bit clueless about a few things and not exactly the world's most social butterfly, but he knows what the gleam in those eyes and the sliver of canine in that grin and he feels something thrum in his veins.
He smiles wide at the other, cheekily if he may. "Maybe I will give it back, someday."
The other chuckles, shaking his head, as Noctis threads his arms into the sleeve of the leather jacket. He feels dwarfed by their size, but there's a warmth around him that eases his form and feels the telltale signs of incoming sleep. There's a comforting scent about the jacket – not unlike roasted espresso beans and cedar – and he doesn't notice that he had bent his head and taken a deep sniff.
Realizing what he had done, Noctis raises his head and finds the other watching him, eyes soft, expression pensive.
"Hey."
The other makes an answering hum.
"You do realize that I may never give this back to you ever again, right?"
"Brat."
He knows he should feel offended by the nickname, but the carefree way it was said has him wanting to smile. Noctis hides his grin under the collar of the jacket.
"Noctis."
"What?"
He makes his voice louder. "My name is Noctis."
The other nods, smiling back. "Gladio."
The night grows colder but Noctis doesn't feel it, ensconced in dark leather. Silence fills the space between them, but it's not constricting or awkward. Noctis and Gladio spends the night staring out the balcony and into the sleepless gargantuan of Insomnia, the midnight blue sky disappearing in pastels of purple and white over the horizon.
Noctis jumps into the driver's seat, turning the key and feeling the car engine rumble to life before quieting down to a smooth hum. He turns the AC on and pulls the shade over – he's all for feeling the wind in his face but there was barely any wind and the sun would murder him. The door to the passenger's side opens and he avoids watching Gladio fit himself and his long legs into the front seat. The leather seat crinkles under the weight and, like clockwork, Gladio pushes the seat back to make more space for himself (almost by instinct and Noctis swallows, reminded of a million memories like this and his throat feels like the craggy cliffs of the Ravatogh.
"God," Gladio says after the seat is adjusted enough for his form. He turns to Noctis with a disbelieving face. "Don't tell me you haven't taken out that stupid bottle under the seat."
Noctis prides himself in his silence, even if his feels glows bright red at the — okay, fine, he hasn't thrown it out yet. He tells himself he would get to it, eventually (as usual, he never does).
"Man, this thing has been under the seat for ten years. Seriously."
"Shut up." Noctis replies. If anyone was picking that stupid bottle out, it was Prompto. He had stuffed that under seat one night, years ago, in a drunken haze. He shakes his head, remembering that night.
He waits for Gladio to put his seatbelt on, and once seeing it done, he's about to put the car into reverse when he feels a tap on his arm and Gladio looks at him pointedly.
"What?"
"No need to run to the bathroom? Maybe grab a few chips?"
"Fuck you, Gladio."
Said fucker grins, all teeth and smiles, and Noctis purses his lips to stop himself from grinning back as he finally pulls out of Hammerhead station and on to the road.
He turns the AC up as he feels the sweat stick to his shirt, ignoring his fingers bumping against Gladio's as the other fiddles with the radio. He doesn't pull his hand away as if burned, not when Gladio opens the dashboard compartment and pulls out the stacks of albums Noctis has in there—
As if he had not expected anything else to be in that compartment. As if he had not expected to see anything else but the old rock albums he would continually deny to love. As if he had not expected to pull out that one album he knows Noctis loves.
The knuckles of his hand on the wheel grows white as he stares resolutely forward, at the wind beating sand and against the windshield, at the small rocks dotting the street, at the weathered stones rising up to tall heights and the almost infinite savannah before them.
(and If you want the moon,
I swear I'll bring it down for you.)
There were flashing lights – multicolored and bright – and Noctis squints, unable to see or even hear the words Prompto was saying, even if the guy was literally in front of him. He watches the blond pull Ignis into the crowd at the dance floor and Noctis isn't even sure he can hear himself when he calls out to them. The music is blaring through large speakers, the club reverberating around him and he feels a bit out of place.
In spite of how he usually seems, he wasn't born yesterday. He can be comfortable in a club but, and the blond tufts of Prompto's hair finally disappears into the crowd, it'd pretty much suck to be in a club by yourself. He feels an arm around his shoulder, and he turns and sees Gladio grinning at him.
Noctis smiles back, wanting to say something but stopping – it was pointless, no one could hear him. As if understanding him, Gladio pulled him away from the crowd – through the dancing bodies pressing against and some girl's hair in his mouth – and he's out of the club and into Insomnia's sleepless yet quieter streets. Bright lamplights replace the club strobes and his eyes (and ears) adjust to the new environment, filled with car horns and engine noise and human chatter.
He doesn't hide the sigh of relief that escapes his mouth, and Gladio laughs – a deep sound that seemed to echo from inside, comforting and warm – and Noctis elbows him in the side.
His elbow hits the lower part of the other's abdomen – he wasn't small, Gladio was just abnormally tall – and Gladio ruffles his hair. Noctis makes an annoyed noise and responds by pushing Gladio away, barely escaping the hold of Gladio's arm. He's not angry, though. He never is, when it comes to Gladio.
"You okay?" The taller of the two asks, grinning. Noctis smiles back, eyes trailing the scar that ran across his eye. He can still remember the day it happened – weeks from when they first met and Gladio had introduced him to his other friends Ignis and Prompto and it was the first Friday night Noctis spent outside the four walls of his bedroom, just a couple of boys having fun when a drunken man with a temper started – and he tries to hide the concern in his eyes every time he sees it.
"Mmhmm." Noctis answers. "I have no idea where Ignis and Prompto are, though. Couldn't hear them."
"They'll be fine. I mean, Ignis is there so Prompto will be fine." Noctis smiles at the message – he can already imagine Ignis' exasperated face when the youngest of their group gets shitfaced and, yet, their bespectacled friend can't seem to find the heart to stop being a mother hen especially when it comes to Prompto.
Music from the club seeps into the air, a slight drumbeat in the air and the cool Insomnia night and Gladio is smiling at him, dressed in black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, rust-colored eyes flashing gold in the lamplight. "Do you wanna walk around?"
Noctis doesn't even have to make himself think of an answer before the word "yes" was out of his lips.
In the eternal Crown City, night was as constant as day – the streets lined with stalls next to bustling restaurants and parlors, crowds and throngs of people bustling down the alley, lit beneath lamps and twinkling lights in tastefully lined in rope. The smell of skewered meat sizzling on grillers clashed with fruity fragrances of cakes and pastries from the local patisseries, the occasional whiff of vanilla and espresso (Ignis' favorite, no doubt) trickling in and Noctis swivels his head to follow a server setting out what seemed to be long-bone steaks onto the table.
Gladio sticks to his side as they walk through the bazaar, his arm warm around Noctis' shoulders and, yeah, this would be the time that Prompto would run a bit ahead to snap a shot of them with his camera, Noctis rolling his eyes at the tell-tale gleam in the blond's eyes as he smiles conspiratorially at him. Gladio would grunt in his usual gruff way, pretending to look angry, but the arm would remain.
And Noctis—
He wouldn't want it any other way.
Not with the scent of cedar against his side, encasing him in a bubble of comfort.
He wouldn't raise his own hand to clutch at Gladio's. He wouldn't wrap his arm around the taller man's waist. He wouldn't press his nose against the other's side and close his eyes. He wouldn't look up at him beneath his fringe and see those molten-brown eyes already looking down.
But he wanted to. Astrals, he needed to.
Yet, it was just the two of them now. No Prompto around to grin and smirk. No Ignis to adjust his glasses and look at them, pensive and curious.
Just Gladio, cedar and the warmth of his arm around Noctis' shoulders.
They pass by an open stall, where an old man was setting up his little wares, and there was a radio by the side – clunky old little thing – a song playing, a little distorted yet the voice distinct, and Noctis slows down.
He makes a show of checking out the wares, not wanting Gladio to know that he stopped because the song playing was stupid.
It was stupid and nonsensical, cliché and everything Noctis says he doesn't like in music.
Except it wasn't.
Not to him.
Any hope of Gladio not noticing goes out of the window as Noctis hears him hum, then slowly word out the lyrics and he looks up at a knowing smile and eyes far, far too soft—
He scowls and tries to push away but Gladio doesn't look away and he doesn't let go.
"I'll take you to paradise," Gladio sings, a fleshed out baritone voice that makes something throb in Noctis' chest, but his smile is wide and happy and his eyes are bright. "Ain't a star that's too far."
But the idiot – the big idiot grins wide and kneels on the ground and opens his arms to Noctis and serenades him in that strong, loud voice of his that continually makes people turn their heads and Noctis can't stop himself from smiling and laughing and singing along because it's a cold night in Insomnia and Ignis and Prompto are off somewhere and the old man was laughing to himself at Gladio's antics and the smell of freshly baked apple pie makes his stomach growl and because the lamplights are mapping constellations in amber and whiskey and Noctis was in love.
He was so fucking in love.
With a big oaf who could do squats while reading pop literature; with an idiot who buys four packs of cup noodles instead of one because "no, Noct you can't have too many"; with a generous dolt who gives a quiet, unassuming neighbor his own jacket because he was cold; with this man who has hearts for eyes when he talks about his sister—
And Gladiolus Amicitia is on his knees, singing, smiling and Noctis can't help his own heart from oscillating between heartbreak and heartache.
He doesn't know how he manages to keep on breathing steadily when the chorus hits, as the lyrics trail and echo around them and Noctis stubbornly refuses to look at Gladio. If he closes his eyes, he can still make out the lights, he can still remember the taste of the crust of the apple pie they bought after, can still remember the way Gladio had placed his hand on his face and thumbed away the whip cream on his cheek and just stared at him like he was something...something Noctis doesn't want to name, not now, not when there was a cavern of a decade between them.
He doesn't know if Gladio is thinking about that night as the song continues to play, doesn't know if he's thinking about the way his arm felt around Noctis, the way his voice cracked at the end of the last chorus because he was laughing too hard, the way Noctis pushed him until he fell to the ground and they accidentally broke one of the wares and Noctis had stood there laughing as they both pulled cash out of their pockets.
It was stupid, and foolish and naïve and—and—
"How have you been?" The question is unexpected and Noctis is pulled out of his bitterness for a moment, turning to Gladio. He quickly looks away, unwilling to allow the other man to see the emotions running across his face.
How have you been, he asks. As if they haven't seen each other in the last ten years. As if they haven't spoken to one another in the last decade. As if Noctis hadn't avoided every chance to meet him – in a birthday or party or other – in the last ten years. As if Noctis hadn't known that Gladio was there, that he was doing fine, that he was happy and Noctis held back the acrimony.
"Fine." He answers with an answer spoken by a hundred truths and a million lies and he hopes it's not seething with the bitterness he's using to cover up the—
Whatever. He's fine. He's been fine for ten years.
The silence between them becomes even more oppressive at the wake of his subdued and tightly-restrained response and he feels the eyes on him turn a bit colder and guarded, feels the man beside him tense and—
"Tired." He corrects himself with the truth.
It eases – the atmosphere – and Gladio relaxes. The hand he has on the wheel isn't a vicegrip, and Noctis shifts the gear as he speeds up a bit on the empty road, passing by a few Anaks by an outcrop to the west. The song trails to an end before another tracks plays, a much quieter one, and Gladio's voice is tinged with concern. "Work?"
Noctis wants to shrug, to deflect the question, or the confirmation, because how does he say that he's tired, that juggling a demanding job and the hospital bills from his father's two-year stay in the hospital and that, sometimes, he just wants to sit and scream? How does he say that he's exhausted of crawling through the days since his father's death, since the funeral and picking up the pieces of his life after that? How does he say that he's spent, with all the mornings that have turned to nights and to mornings again, deadline after deadline, and the special handwritten invitation to his father's funeral hidden in the depths of his cabinet, the one written by his own hand, the name "Gladiolus Amicitia" barely legible as Noctis had to stifle sobs and wracking cries, hand shaking, tears dripping into the white sheet?
But life goes on.
Life doesn't stop for one man's sorrows. The world doesn't stop spinning because a heart is broken.
He deletes the unsent messages in his phone, he throws away the unstamped letters and he breathes in deep on the days that he feels like he's about to fall apart and, sometimes, only breathing keeps him intact.
"Yeah," Noctis answers. "Work, and stuff. You know?"
Gladio smiles back at him, when Noctis turns, and he allows himself a moment to take it all in: the thick brows that are set evenly, the eyes that could cut stone in their rage (and could glow with a heat that traces the lines of Noctis' soul embedded onto his skin), the lips that could form a smile and sing cliché lyrics and, in a moment of foolishness (or courage, a voice in his head says – it sounds ridiculously like Ignis) Noctis smiles back and whiskey shines and crinkles.
In the few hours that make up the distance between Hammerhead and Longwythe, Gladio falls asleep in two, a soft ballad playing through the car speakers, the warmth of the afternoon sun seeping in through the windshield and repelled by the AC and the occasional pack of Garulet crossing the road that has him skidding to a stop, has him turning to the other and maybe he stares a little too much at the lashes that hide tawny-eyes, at the lines on his face (faint, almost invisible), the crinkles he knows will be there when Gladio' smiles, at the slope of his nose and he intimately knows how that feels against his skin and Garulet have crossed and he resumes his drive and his heart returns to the backburner along with the locked chest of everything in the last ten years and maybe, one day, he'll have that moment of foolishness (courage) again and be stupid (brave) enough to open it.
Four or so hours before they arrive at Longwythe, Gladio wakes up and insists to switch. Noctis may have argued about being able enough to handle it but he ends up relenting, not when those eyes are on him again and he sits on the passenger's side and not at the back because he's not that much of an asshole, even when the leather of the car seat is warm and smells like cedar.
He steals glances at the other, at the lines of ink that dance from shoulder to forearm. "You?"
Gladio turns to him, an eyebrow raised.
He doesn't want to repeat it, it took everything he had to ask it, but it escapes his lips anyway. "How have you been?"
He avoids looking at Gladio's eyes, doesn't want to see what expression runs through them – rage, hurt, bitterness, an apathy that would cut him into too many pieces for him to ever pick up again – and settles with watching the thick, brown locks settle against the collar of his shirt, still the same.
Gladio is quiet, pensive even, and Noctis wouldn't begrudge him to leave his question unanswered, but when Gladio does respond – his words are breathed out too finely for him to make out the emotion behind them.
"Tired."
— and somewhere, inside, a part of Noctis wants to know if this little question they've asked each other is about the present or something else, if the weight of the story behind that one word was the weight of a hundred memories and feelings, a million ghosts of the touches and looks and smiles they've shared or to the past that they've viciously beat into the darkest corners of their souls, unwilling to let a sliver of light on them.
Noctis closes his eyes and settles himself, almost smelling the trail of nicotine in the air, and allows himself to sink into god-sent slumber.
Then, as if a second later, he feels a hand on his shoulder. It's warm, firm but not painfully so and the same hand maps his cheek up to his forehead and he feels it brushing the hair away and Noctis opens his eyes to see Gladio turned to him, meeting his gaze.
He expects embarrassment and that sort.
What he gets is a simple smile, a quiet "we're here" as if Noctis was still asleep (and maybe there's some truth in that perhaps – in the years of his adolescence, where sleep trailed at the edges of his feet).
He sits up and stretches, looking outside and sees the small town, decrepit-looking motel and the carshop by the side, the stalls of merchants dotting the sides. Longwythe Rest, says the dingy sign and Noctis steps out of the car, turns to see Gladio heading to the reception outside the motel. He rubs the sleep away from his eyes, tries to comb his hair into some semblance of normalcy (even if it will always be in vain).
"For two?" Asks the man behind the reception and Gladio nods. Noctis stands beside him, not touching, save for the trail of his arm against the other's.
"We got 'em ready, but they ain't deluxe, kid. Standard only."
Gladio turns his head to him, and his face and eyes are blank and Noctis sighs. It's a bad idea. A momentously, gigantic and explosively bad idea but this day had been bad ideas sorted on top of bad ideas and Noctis just wants to get this entire trip over.
He nods, not wanting to voice out his response, and maybe something flits through the amber gaze on him but he doesn't stay to notice, walking back to the car to pull out their (his and Gladio's, not theirs, as in together, not at all) bags.
Noctis pulls the key from the ignition and opens the trunk while Gladio deals with the registration. He could make up whatever excuse he wants as to why they're sharing a bed, Noctis doesn't really care right now. He just wants to eat and pass out and disappear.
He pulls out his bag first, the one with his casual clothes as the other bag had his suit and he doesn't want to mess it up since it was recently pressed, and sets his bag on the ground. He's contemplating about closing the trunk and letting Gladio pull his own bag out when he sighs to himself, he's not a brat, not a child anymore and pulls out the other's duffel bag.
Something crinkles and he turns the bag around and, there, hanging by the lock, is an old chocobo keychain.
And, suddenly, he's nineteen again, scrawny and awkward and in love and his breath hitches. Maybe he slams the trunk close a little too forcefully. Maybe he drops Gladio's bag by the other's feet a little to unceremoniously. Maybe he looks into the other's concerned gaze a little too honestly.
Or maybe he's still that scared boy who can't face the truth as he turns away and makes for their hotel room.
"Noctis."
And he stops, because it's the first time Gladio has spoken his name today. He stops because it's the first time he's heard his own name trace those lips in the last decade. He stops because it's Gladio and he can't say no, not without crawling back up to the parapets.
He turns his head, hoping that's enough because he doesn't have the strength to look at Gladio in the eye. Not now, not after that.
The bag is held in a hand, the keychain swaying slightly – the chocobo gone from its bright yellow to a dark one in time, the slight gash by the wing from rubbing against leather, the cheap quality – and he swallows.
"Yeah?" He asks, hoping his voice is strong enough because it's the only thing strong about him at this point.
Gladio doesn't answer yet, as if juggling on whether he wants to or not, but the man breathes deep – chest slightly expanding – and his voice is soft, warm and tender and everything Noctis does not expect after all these years.
"Your father…Ignis told me. After. He told me a month after the ceremony was over. It was by accident, I'm sure and…"
Noctis swallows again.
"If…if you had told me, I would have been there. I just wanted you to know that."
Noctis nods, it's the only thing he can do, and he continues to the room, ignoring the itch in his eyes or the fact that his heart is in his throat or that his vision turns blurry and only heartache keeps him standing.
It was probably eleven or twelve in the evening, or maybe even one or two in the morning – Noctis had lost count after the third bottle and the second round of that dance-off with Prompto. His vision is bordering on flimsy now, but he doesn't care as the laughter bubbles up his chest and he chuckles as he follows Gladio up the stairs to his bedroom, watches the other miss a step and tumble into the landing, all his birthday gifts falling to the floor and the bigger man just laughs even more. Noctis climbs up with the help of the wall, decorated with the mandatory embarrassing childhood photos of a chubby six-year old Gladio, and Noctis can't help but coo at him, still on his knees and laughing.
The door across Gladio's room opens and Iris' unamused face peeks out and tells her older brother to shut up before slamming back shut.
It only serves to make them both laugh even harder.
"Come on, big guy." Noctis says, once he had gotten himself back in control, ambling up to pull Gladio's arm up. Honestly, there was nothing that funny about the situation but alcohol did make everything ten times more hilarious for some reason. "Alright, birthday boy, let's go before you start drooling. C'mon, you know your dad hates it when you guys mess the carpet up."
"not drunk," Gladio answers, slightly slurring, waving a hand at him and Noctis helps him up as he stands. He stands for a second, before leaning against the wall with an audible thud, eyes wide. "Mmkay, maybe a little drunk."
"Yeah, uh huh." Noctis agrees, unsure as to what he was agreeing in the first place, and slowly starts to pick the gifts up – making sure not to bow too deeply before his already questionable sense of balance (made even more doubtful with alcohol) decided to test itself out.
"Wait, lemme help ya." The other says, snaking an arm around Noctis' waist and leaning into him as his uneven coordination almost topples them.
"I got it, I got it. Sheesh, Gladdy, chill before you get us both killed." He says and Gladio makes a negating sort of noise, as if the thought disgusts me.
"No, you don't get to die yet." Gladio says, still not letting go of Noctis as they slowly make their way into his bedroom. It wasn't Noctis' first time inside his best friend's room – he's been here often, his dad allowing it knowing it was just next door – and he sets his friend down on his bed, ignoring the mess of blankets and shoes and the occasional underwear on the hamper. He turns on the lamp, watches the amber light pour into the room and piles the gifts on the table by the dresser.
Gladio flops into the bed with his arms abreast and his eyes follow Noctis around his room. The alcohol is still thrumming in his veins, his balance occasionally fragile, but he's extremely mindful of that gaze on him, mindful of the flush of red across Gladio's cheeks and the swath of skin on display as his shirt had ridden up when he had laid back, tanned and tempting and just the entire idea of Gladio in bed, arms open and looking willing and content and that stupid, stupid smile on his lips and his eyes glowing and he's everything Noctis wanted, wanted with a passion not like any other.
"Whattya lookin' at?" He asks, crossing his arms, squinting at the birthday celebrant.
He simply smiles and shakes his head and sits up, hair askew. "Hey, it's not over yet."
"What?"
"My birthday."
Noctis chuckles. "Uh, it is, actually. It's two fourt…no, two fiftee…two something already."
Gladio shakes his head, smile too wide to be anything but innocent. "No, new rule. It's still my birthday. So, that means you get to do what I want."
He smiles good-naturedly, rolling his eyes. "Alright, alright, birthday boy. Sheesh. At least Ignis and Prompto are home already, or else we wouldn't have stopped with that Twister game."
Gladio's eyes widen and they glow and Noctis feels alarm rising. "No, no more Twister."
The other pouts instead and Noctis chuckles, eyeing the pile of gifts by the table. He sees the one he had bought – in a hurry because he was being an idiot and what kind of friend was he to forget his own best friend's birthday? – and that stupid chocobo keychain had pulled a smile on the other's face and had made his throat go dry (and probably was the reason why Noctis downed an entire bottle by himself).
Gladio follows his gaze and Noctis shrugs. "Stupid gift."
"No, it isn't. I like it." Says the other and Noctis smiles.
"Yeah, don't lie. I know you hate the color." He says and smiles wide as Gladio blushes again. Gods, he looks so beautiful like that—
"Okay, so maybe I hate the color, but hey, it's still cute. Plus, it came from you."
Noctis frowns, not wanting to think of the implications and the subtext behind those words. "Whatever, I'll give you a better gift soon."
There was something in the way – after Noctis had spoken those words – that Gladio had looked at him, that same unreadable expression in his eyes. The lamplight is low and soft, and it eases the lines of Gladio's sharper features, and his eyes are lighter than they usually are, the way they glow in the darkness, the way his smile is softer – almost happy and euphoric – in that moment that has Noctis pressing his hand against his belly and he wonders if what's underneath are flocks of his feelings soaring in a Gladio-shaped sky.
Gladio pats the space next to him and Noctis, fear and hesitation and hope itching to crawl out of his lips, slowly makes his way and sits down next to the other, and he smells like cedar, his bed smells like cedar and the room smells like cedar and it's not unlike the first time they met, with the other's jacket around him, ensconced in a warmth that promised to stay forever.
"Had a good birthday?" He asks, genuinely curious.
"Yeah, best birthday I had." And maybe, at any other time, Noctis would roll his eyes and call him out on his bluff, or maybe he'd gang up with Prompto and they'd pinch Gladio's cheek and pretend to coo at him.
Right now, though, all he sees is his own reflection staring back at him in Gladio's eyes.
He wants to break away, he wants to inch closer and bridge the distance, he wants to run right out of the room and disappear and he wants to crawl himself into the space between Gladio's arms until nobody could make out where he ends and the other begins.
"Of course, it was a 'Do All The Things You Want' party," he deflects, repeating Prompto's own words a few hours ago. Noctis wonders, for a moment, if he'll ever have the strength to voice out the truth.
Gladio doesn't respond, keeps on staring, and the way he stares—
Ramuh help him, Gladio stares at him like he's something important, something precious, something irreplaceable and—
"Do all the things you want, huh?" Gladio asks, but Noctis doesn't answer, or is not given the opportunity—
Not when Gladio leans forward and presses his lips against his.
And, contrary to what the movies say, there are no fireworks, no shooting stars streaking through the night sky, no bottles of champagne popping open, no auroras shining heavensward or purifying rain bathing them in their green-white glow.
There is whiskey in Gladio's breath, there is warmth in Gladio's touch, there is Gladio's lips pressed against his, there are Gladio's hands reverently holding his face, there are Gladio's eyes closed just as Noctis' and he falls from the precipice he's been holding himself on for too long, finding purchase on Gladio's shoulders and pushing him away.
Slightly, infinitesimally, because that's the only distance he could ever bear to set between him and Gladio.
"You're drunk," he wheezes out, "you're drunk and you're going to regret this, Gladio. You're drunk and you don't mean this, not this" managing to find the right words when his heart is both breaking and celebrating, when he feels his soul soar and fly and fall, when Gladio's eyes are black with desire and affection and that soft, soft gleam that could bring Noctis to his knees and—
"Maybe I am," Gladio says. Whispers. Ethereal and sibilant, like forbidden promises in the dark of night. "Maybe I am drunk and these are my dreams, or maybe I'm dead and I'm in paradise, or maybe I'm tired with not being honest with myself anymore."
His hands are still on Noctis' face, and he feels the trail of the other's fingers on his cheek and the way they skim on his skin, lightning and fire crackling at the edge - the words dripping from Gladio's lips are trite but the honesty is riveting - Noctis painfully aware of every texture of the other's form on him, of every exhale on his lips, the feel of the other's scruff on his chin, the slant of Gladio's nose against his and—
"Maybe I'm ready to admit this." He continues and Noctis doesn't know what he sees, what Gladio sees when he looks at him, because the reflection in Gladio's eyes have tears glistening and each and every moment he had withheld from the other out in the open. "Maybe I'm ready to admit that I want you so much."
He wants to shake his head, in disbelief or in surprise or whatever it is that is hurtling through his chest, but Gladio keeps his hold on Noctis' face firm, as if not wanting to accept it.
"No, I'm ready, Noct. I'm ready to admit it, that I want you so bad that it leaves me aching; that when you smile and laugh, your eyes look like the evening sky and I just want to see you keep on smilin' and smilin' until your cheeks hurt; that you look so gorgeous and perfect and everything I want so much like this; that I'm so fucking lucky to have met you and I'm so fucking lucky to have you in my life."
And he doesn't – he doesn't have the strength to take in all those words, the insistent, almost religious way Gladio's lips curl around the words and, fuck, he's not crying.
He's not. He's fucking not.
A thumb wipes the trail on his cheek and Gladio presses his forehead against his eyes, amber eyes boring into his. "Believe me, Noct. Believe me. I don't give a shit about fate and destiny, but fucking believe me when I say it's true for us. I can't believe anything else, not when there's you."
And Noctis has to be honest with himself.
Because he's weak like that. He doesn't have the strength, or the courage to do otherwise as he surrenders and barrels into this.
("Believe me," Gladio bites into his neck, and he feels lips against the lobe of his ear. "Believe me.")
Not when he's spent so long holding himself down, keeping every door and crevice shut, letting his once unrequited feelings wallow and curl into a tiny ember under the chains he's held over his heart. A stronger man would have refused, a stronger man would have not been this willing – but it was Gladio and Noctis…he can't say no, not to him. Not to those heartfelt eyes or to those words bordering on husky or to the way this moment made him feel that every moment, every fucking moment he's felt heartbroken for a love that would forever hide in the dark, was worth it.
Give me a chance, says that ember in his heart. I could make you happy, it promises and Noctis doesn't know if it's talking to Gladio or to him, but it's voice is young and timid, but it continues to burn, to hope, to promise that it'll do it's best.
"Please," Noctis says, more breath than word. "don't forget this. Don't forget this in the morning. Don't hate me in the morning. Don't regret this in the morning."
Don't let me go in the morning.
Gladio's eyes glisten. "Never."
And those lips are back on his, warm and encompassing and Noctis doesn't let himself hesitate, doesn't let himself second guess. The hands pushing against Gladio's shoulders turn to crawl up and curl in his thick locks, the hands on Noctis' face fall to his shoulders, to hold his back as he allows himself to fall. Gladio bends over him, his form gargantuan and massive above him – comforting and safe and warm and his hands in Gladio's hair grab tighter as his lips are easily pried open, feels the flick of Gladio's tongue against his, feels the scruff of the other's beard against his chin and the pleasure, the affection – the emotions he can't name – crackle through him until the ends and tips of his fingers and toes, curling into a ball of warmth.
And maybe this really is a dream. Maybe this is just his fantasies playing out in the open, mocking him, and Noctis was just the fool to do it over and over because-
He needs this.
He needs the feel of the bed against his back, the feel of Gladio's hands on the skin of his back, the weight of him atop, the gasp at the edge of Gladio's lips when he parts for air and his eyes burn through the carefully-crafted shields Noctis had placed, rendered useless as he bucks against him and the sound Gladio makes - dear Astrals - the way his voice goes rough and raspy as he whispers Noctis' name across his lips like a brand, a tattoo, carved into his skin and stitched into his soul.
-And, maybe, in the morning, he'll forget about it like a cruel stroke of fate; that he'll forget the way his touch had Noctis gasping and trembling, the way his words had brought tears to his eyes, the way Noctis held on to him - arms tight, unyielding - as their hips ground against one another, clothes bedamned; maybe he'll forget all of it and wake in the morning with a clearer view and a laugh and there will be a mask on Noctis' face, ready to let himself crumble in his silence. Maybe it'll all be just for one night, one drunken night of weakness (or truth), and the rest of their days they'll spend believing that they haven't seen each other come undone and fall apart in each other's arms through the turbulence of love and lust. Maybe.
Perhaps "maybe" is the only thing Noctis could ever hope for at this point.
Noctis holds the other's face in hands, just wanting to see Gladio, to want and look and embed every scratch and nuance and pimple and dent into his memory - and he's tired of putting his shields up and he lets Gladio sees all the pieces he's holding on to, the moments of secrecy he cherishes intimately and when Gladio dips his head and kisses him - it's gentle and warm, a promise of both understanding and fear.
The truth is this: Noctis and Gladio fall asleep in each other's arms, cedar hugging them close. The truth is this: Gladio wakes up with a pounding headache and a parched throat and Noctis is there, glass of water and analgesic in hand. The truth is this: Gladio downs the glass in a go and he pulls Noctis into his arms, back into his bed, like he's always belonged there (he always had).
The truth is this: Gladio doesn't forget. He remembers. There are questions upon questions on his tongue - what comes after, what happens next, what they've become - but those are questions for the coming days.
The truth is this: Gladio kisses him in the morning, as the dawn light seeps through the blinds, and Noctis learns to breathe again. The truth is this: Gladio crawls over him and reaffirms the promises he's made the night before, repeats the same words as Noctis gasps and keens, hands marking the skin on Gladio's back red, whispers promises to Noctis' ears as he shakes in the aftermath.
(You don't have to doubt anymore. I'm here. Always. You'll always make me feel good. Let me make you feel good, too. One day, you'll learn to see yourself the way I do and you'll stop wondering why I say the things I do. Let me in, Noct. I'll make you so fucking happy. Believe me.)
He doesn't have to be afraid anymore.
Freefall.
Gladio wasn't letting go.
Dusk in Leides were different to the nights in Insomnia. Evenings were colder, the total opposite of the heat in the daytime - and Noctis regrets changing into a thin cotton shirt for dinner. There was no room service in the motel, and guests usually bought their dinners at the food tends on the other side of the road.
Gladio had already saved them a table and, for a moment he wants to hang back - recalling his earlier emotional outburst - but Noctis braves on and plops down on the only seat available: across Gladio.
If his earlier actions affected Gladio, he didn't show it. The other simply smiled, setting his phone aside. He had changed into a t-shirt as well but the cold didn't seem to bother him as much as it did Noctis - and he almost rolls his eyes at himself. Gladio was always a furnace, warm and cozy. How many times had he used the other as a blanket, a pillow, a makeshift jacket in the frigid cinemas of Insomnia?
He braves a smile back. There were things brimming beneath the surface, and Noctis knew Gladio had so many things to say, to ask, and the fact he didn't was in consideration for him.
He knows he has to be the one to open that box up. It was unfair, unfair to him, to Gladio, to their friends. The fact that Gladio could stomach sitting here, right now, with him - eyes open and easy, smile welcoming - that uncompromising warmth in full display, was enough to make him sick to the pits of his stomach.
He knows he should, but when the server swings by to set two plates of skewered beef and grilled potatoes and Gladio's eyes light up in excitement and he shares a grin with Noctis, like the ten years could disappear (forgotten), the easiness between them - he can't. Not now, not after all this time.
Not when he just wants to savor this moment, this little moment of stupidity and, Shiva, who knows how long he'll hold on to this moment in the coming days? Who knows how long he can still allow himself to hope, reminisce and dream? To wish he could return to that night, set in an unending loop, over and over?
Seeing Gladio, hearing him talk, seeing the light of his eyes - they were shedding light into fears and hurts and heartaches he swore he had buried beneath necessity, beneath the past years, along with his father's proud smile and the memory of cedar around him?
But the years do go by, and he's learned to keep on breathing, and maybe he'll learn to keep on breathing through this.
They talk. Noctis finds the strength to join and talk and ask and laugh. He finds the will to accept this moment and its impermanence.
And Gladio - beautiful, blinding - smiles and laughs and lightly punches him in the shoulder when Noctis responds to his snark with wit and-
And a hand is on his cheek, and the flecks of gold gleam in those eyes, and Noctis feels a thumb graze his cheek and-
The way those eyes glisten.
Never, they promised once. Believe me.
Noctis stands suddenly, his knees hitting the edge of the table, making their plates jump. The stool under him falls but he doesn't notice, not when the air in his lungs had turned to soot, not when the blood in his veins had turned to lead, not when the constant weight on his chest multiplied, not when Gladio looks at him surprise and concern and the stitches and staples he had to use to put himself back together were breaking apart-
"No, no, no, no." He whispers, breathes out.
"Noct, hey, calm down," Gladio says, soothingly, timber low. "Baby, breathe, c'mon."
"No!" That singular word echoes, like a gunshot, and he feels a million eyes on him, feels his skin prickling, feels the ground beneath him crumble and he doesn't realize he's stepping back, away and away and his hands are cold, so cold-
"Shit! Uh, here, take it. Keep the change. Noct? Noct, baby, hey, hey."
He steps away, cold and cold and cold, and there are hands on his face, turning him towards - towards -
"No, Gladio, I said no!"
He pushes the other away, voice echoing with, with, with an emotion he doesn't know (rage or heartbreak or confusion).
"You don't get to do that, not now, not after all this time."
Gladio freezes, as if Noctis had dealt him a crush blow.
"Noct-"
"No, no. I was okay. I was fine. I was keeping on. I didn't have to do this, I didn't have to feel this way again. I didn't have to think about this and you come back into my life and, no, you can't do this. Not after this time."
Every word that comes out of his lips has Gladio's eyes turn colder and colder. He opens his mouth, words piling out but Gladio beats him to it.
"I wasn't the one who walked away. You walked away."
And that - that hurt, angry, bitter you - used like a knife on him has Noctis silent.
It was two months after graduation. Two months after they had finished college.
The thing was, Noctis knew Gladio had a plan. He had so many ambitions and dreams. He wanted to take over supporting the family, he wanted his father to retire from his career at the military. He wanted to support his sister in her studies. Iris wanted to be a doctor, and medschool was expensive, but Gladio was determined to see it through. He had plans for his life, and he had continually worked towards them.
Noctis was different.
It wasn't to say that he had no plans - he did, if somewhat vague. He wanted his father to be proud of him. He wanted to make his father feel that all those years of raising a son by himself were worth it. He wanted his friends to be proud of him. He wanted Gladio to be proud of him.
Because Gladio had so many things to offer to the world and to those dreams of his and Noctis - the only thing Noctis wanted was to make the people he loved happy and proud.
When his father sits him down to talk to him about the government moving them to the consulate in Gralea, he was ready to stand his ground. He was ready to tell his father "no". He was ready to ask his father to let him go, let him be his own person and let him find his own path.
His father had been stricken by the words, as if he hadn't realized that Noctis was no longer the four year old boy who hid behind his legs. With tears in his eyes, his father had hugged him tight and bid him good luck. He wasn't set to leave yet, and he spent the remaining days helping Noctis on his set up in Insomnia, the jobs he'll apply for and he was ready for all of it.
Ready to embrace the future with Gladio at his side.
He was nineteen and he felt like he was on top of the world.
But the truth was different.
Noctis drew up blanks. The jobs he applied for, he found in disinteresting and his heart failed to find something to keep him passionate. On the nights he was with his friends, with Prompto and Ignis heading into apprenticeships on their own (renowned photographers and two-Michelin star restaurants) and Gladio would just grin and strong-arm their friends in pride, his company ID displaying promotion after promotion because he was brilliant - anyone could see that - and Noctis, Noctis with no defining talent, no defining trait. He didn't have Prompto's artistic eye, or Ignis' skill with a kitchen knife or Gladio's ease at adjusting and adapting to whatever comes at him.
(he only knows that Gladio's eyes flicker between whiskey and gold in between the lamplight and the four P.M. sunlight; he only knows the hitches in Gladio's breathing as he trails kiss after kiss down the other's navel; he only knows the way Gladio's lips curl as he whispers the words "I love you" against his ear, like he was born for it, like he was born for Noctis)
A day comes when Gladio asks Noctis to meet him in a secluded area in the park. On his way to it, following the footpath he remembers, he's still lost in purpose, recalling only how they both stumbled into this area by themselves and he and Gladio had made it into their little nest.
Noctis enters the clearing and there's a gorgeous set of food on the grass, nestled on a blanket. There were little lights hung from the trees' branches surrounding the tall grass and the evening sky painted palettes of puce and marigold against the backdrop of stars-
And Gladio was there. Gods, he was there and he looked gorgeous and stunning and perfect. He was there, dressed to the nines, every fantasy Noctis had come to life, his hair neatly combed back, a wide loving smile on his face and his eyes glowing in the candlelight and he had held Noctis' face in his hands and had given him the sweetest kiss, a kiss that cemented itself into the recesses of his mind.
"I love you," Gladio said, whispered, promised. "I love you so much and I want you so much and I have never been so sure in my entire life."
And Noctis - on those words - on the promises beneath those words, buckles and steps away. "What?"
That look of utter joy in Gladio's eyes had been paralyzing, the way he had pulled Noctis' hand up and kissed every knuckle, how he had stepped forward and kissed every sliver of skin on Noctis' face until he was a ticking bomb ready to explode.
"You're not just a first love, a passing phase for me, Noct. Sometimes, I wake up in the morning and I still can't believe I have you in my life."
And that's the entirety of Gladio - clumsy words, trite-sounding, but the intensity beneath them speaks of truth, of honesty. Gladio meant every word he said, no matter how clumsy and crude and gauche and beautiful and perfect the way he said them.
"What's-? Glad, this is beautiful, but what?" He had asked because this display was too much for Noctis, too much for a simple night, a simple dinner if that's what Gladio was planning.
"And I know we're young, and that we still have the future before us, but I've never been so sure in my entire life, Noct."
And Gladio - perfect, blustering Gladio - in his black suit and white dress shirt, with that little sylleblossom - the little blue flower that Gladio once said resembled Noctis' eyes, the same flower that dotted the fields of his childhood home of Tenebrae - inserted on the front of his jacket, with eyes that promised him let me love you, let me love you forever and ever - had fallen to a knee and a ring in the air.
And Noctis -
Who was barely nineteen, lost in the purpose of life and in love with a too honest man. Who continually battled between jealousy and isolation as he listens to Gladio and Ignis and Prompto discuss what they want to do with their lives. Who had a father in a different country, who picks up after every trail hoping to find a semblance of where he belonged. Who called Tenebrae, Insomnia, Altissia, Midgar and Spira home. Who only cared about the way those rust-coloured eyes softened and smiled.
Who had a future so bright and so wide, bumbling and crashing into him and leaving him stranded as he's hounded at every corner by all possibility that he feels himself choking and gasping and running out of air.
He walked away.
He ran.
"I wasn't the one who walked away. You walked away."
Without looking back.
[Baby, please pick up, please, please. Noct, please don't this. Don't shut me out, please. Let me in, please.]
End call.
[Please, please, you can't do this to me. Noctis, please, I love you so fucking much. Please trust me. Please.]
End call.
[Don't leave me alone, Noct. Baby, baby, you're breaking my heart. Please, let me hear your voice. Oh Gods, please, please.]
End call.
[Why don't you believe me? Baby, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please let me in. Please, don't end it like this. Not like this.]
End call.
[I love you, Noctis Caelum. I love you so fucking much that I hate myself for letting it consume me. I love you so fucking much it hurts, I can't breathe and I can't stop myself. I love you so much, so much that nothing and no one after you will ever be able to compare. I love you so much that whoever gets to keep you better fucking deserve it.]
End call.
His thumb slides from the button and his arm falls to the side, phone held in limp fingers. They struggle for a moment, before the phone falls into the rushing waters of the fountain. Noctis doesn't see anything before him, simply stands in the middle of the airport as his heart breaks over and over and over until he stops asking himself if he could remember to breathe on his own again.
Maybe the faces that pass him by look on in concern, but he doesn't care. The only thing echoing in his ears is the pained, heartbroken words of Gladiolus Amicitia - the almost-sobbing way he whispers Noctis' name - as if pretending to be strong is the only thing he could do now - the jagged and thorny words of "I love you" over and over.
Overhead, the monitor's screen display changes.
INSOMNIA TO GRALEA
FLIGHT RHS15
TERMINAL 4
The door to their room opens quietly. Funny, Noctis expected it to bang resoundingly against the wall. They don't though, creaking slightly before he hears the lock click. Close. Shut. He doesn't need to turn. He can feel Gladio's presence behind him.
Only the lamp is on, casting shadows on the drab wallpaper (crinkling in corners, ripped apart in others). Noctis exhales quietly, nose stuffy.
"You walked away from us, Noctis. You. You made the choice to walk away."
He did. He fucking did.
He did without looking back, even if it had cost him the best thing that ever happened to me.
"Look at me, Noctis."
I love you so much, Noctis Caelum.
"Noctis."
And he gasps, turning around. He looks into Gladio's eyes, his face, flashing with rage, shaking with anger and glistening with heartbreak.
"I thought we had something special, something so special between us. I thought we could have made those choices together but you left. You ran. You walked away." Gladio's words were spoken viciously, each syllable a stab into the gaping maw of Noctis' long buried heart. "And you know why? Because you're a fucking coward. You were fucking scared and you ran. You fucking ran from me. You didn't ask me, you didn't think about it, you didn't think about us. You left us. You left me."
And Gladio was shaking, he was shaking and his words were raspy, his voice rougher than usual, and his hand was trembling and Noctis knows he looks no different, knows that his own heart is clenching just the same way Gladio's did.
"We promised each other to never let go. I promised to never let go. You promised to never let go, but you did. You let me go and it fucking hurts."
Noctis tries to breathe, he really does, but every time he pulls up air he only pulls in glass.
"I loved you so much and I still love you so much and it hurts, Noct. It fucking hurts. Ten fucking years and it still feels like I can't breathe and I can't scream. Why? Why? Why does it hurt to love you?"
And the sob that follows Gladio's words has Noctis standing up, his entire body shaking with all the things he kept hidden, with all the nightmares he's placed under lock and key, with all the 'what if's' and 'could haves' over the last decade.
"Because we were young!" He answers, doesn't know if he shouts it or gasps it or whispers it. He doen't fucking care. "Because I was nineteen and I had no idea what to do with my goddamn life. You want the truth? You were right. I was scared, I was fucking scared, okay? You had this plan, you had an entire life in front of you and I had nothing. I had nothing in my life. I had no plans. I had no goals. I was fucking useless, okay? But I wanted you. I loved you. I fucking loved you so much that it hurts. It hurts me, too."
Gladio was still, breathing heavily, but Noctis didn't care. The floodgates had been opened, and all the deflections and avoidance - every lie he came up to escape Prompto and Ignis' prodding - they all fell apart in the fury of the words tumbling out of his mouth.
"I wanted to marry you. I wanted to be with you for-fucking-ever. I wanted to be your husband, your wife, whatever the fuck you wanted me to be because you were the most important thing to me and I can't bear it if one day that will change."
"What?" Gladio's voice was disbelieving.
"I was scared. Yes, I'm a coward, Gladio. You were right. You loved a coward. I was a fucking coward because I was afraid that one day, one fucking day, things will change. We were barely adults, we had the world in front of us and we were already planning to be together for the rest of our lives but what if things changed?"
His voice hitches, words crunching the glass down his throat. "What if, one day, you'll hate me for chaining you down? What if, one day, you'll wake up and realize that you're better off somewhere? What if, one day, you'll look at me and think 'why did I chain myself to someone useless and indecisive, who couldn't make up his own damn mind with what he wants to do with his life'? What if, one day, you'll start hating me for that? What if, one day, I'll start feeling the same thing? What if, one day, I'll feel choked by it that I'd struggle to be free? We had the entirety of our lives before us and I didn't want to rob you of the better things that you could have."
(and he's terrified and frightened, enough to chill the very bones of his body, at the thought of Gladio starting to resent and hate him. he's scared of it to the point that he sometimes wakes up at night, heart beating fast, eyes open and pointed at the ceiling and he'll notice in the morning that the tears haven't stopped)
"Because," and Noctis gasps, doesn't know where he can still pull out more of the truths tumbling out. "even if it kills me, I'd rather let you go than have you hate me. I'd rather let us go, even if I can't sleep at night and it takes everything I have to keep on going, I'd do all of it again if it means that we don't turn to hating each other."
(because promises are good and all, but isn't that what people do - make promises, only to break them? Sometimes, love turns to hate - or worse, love turns to apathy, two sides of the same coin, and he's seen it. He's seen it enough and he can't bear the thought of Gladio growing to resent him. It was different to hate someone because you hurt them, but it was worse to hate someone because you resent them. You resent the times you've shared, you resent the choices you've made, you resent the years wasted. Noctis feels his knees tremble at the thought.)
The silence that follows is thick, and Noctis feels spent, his eyes raw and his palms hurt and he realizes that his fingernails had been biting into his skin hard enough to bleed.
He doesn't look at Gladio. He doesn't want confirmation of the damage he's done. Maybe, if he could hold on to that easy smile over dinner, he can start fixing himself. He'll never be truly intact, yes, but it was the best he could do. That was all he could ever hope to do.
There's a sigh, and an exhale, as if Gladio was shedding some weight and he could breathe in relief and a part of Noctis is grateful, even if it is drowning in the flood of misery.
Steps echo and he expects the door to open and close forever, and Noctis had learned to ignore the stab of pain for each door closed in his face and-
And Gladio is hugging him, tight.
Noctis is still as stone, unbelieving, as his nose is pressed against the cloth of Gladio's shirt, as he feels strong, muscled arms wrap around him and hold him tight, tight enough to hurt, to constrict but the only thing Noctis feels is his own beating heart racing, and he hears Gladio's heart echoing, and before he knows it, he sags against the other, arms just as tight around Gladio.
"You idiot," Gladio whispers, voice low and pained and reverent. "You fucking idiot. Why did I have to love the world's greatest idiot?"
His vision is blurry, the lights and shapes coalescing into forms he couldn't recognized and he feels warmth trickle down his cheeks and he doesn't realize he's whispering "I'm sorry" over and over and over.
"I'm scared, too." Gladio admits, more breath than words. "I was and still am scared, the future terrifies. It's okay to be scared. I just wished you talked to me about it. I just wished you had trusted me enough to talk to me about it."
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry
Arms still tight, Gladio continues. "You were right. We were too young, too young to realize what we were getting into. Maybe you had the right idea, that we would grow to hate each other because we rushed into something we didn't fully understand. But, maybe, if we could have talked about it - things could have been different. We'll never know. It's all maybes and what ifs, but we can't stop living just because we're afraid. You can't keep doing this to yourself, Noct. It hurts to see you like this, always afraid, always doubting, always unsure."
Gladio pulls back to look at him, brows furrowed, eyes just as red and beneath the faint tinge of anger and confusion, the need to know more, it was still gleaming with that same light, that same light that looked at him as if he was painfully important.
"I'm sorry," He admits, with his whole heart, with whatever is left of it, hoping against all hope that Gladio could see the things he can't struggle enough to let out in his eyes. "I'm sorry for not believing you. You asked me to believe you, and I did, but not enough. I'm sorry for not trusting you enough. I'm sorry for doubting you, or doubting us. I'm sorry."
He finally says it - out in the air - and it's not the apology that asks to be forgiven. It's not the words of a man asking recompense, or the words of someone admitting he was wrong.
It was simply the words of someone who had hurt the man he loved and hoping against the impossible, not asking, that he be given the chance to fix it someday.
Gladio looks at him, arms not letting go, pain glimmering.
"I'm sorry, too." He says, and Noctis' lip trembles, not knowing what to say or do. A thumb reaches up to wipe the tear away from his cheek. "I'm sorry for letting you fester these feelings for so long. I'm sorry for telling you that I love you but not seeing that I was leaving you alone in your doubts and fears. I'm sorry for telling you that I'd love you forever, yet the moment you were scared and terrified, I didn't notice. Gods, I was a fucking idiot, too."
"I'm an idiot, too." Noctis answers, rubbing his hand across the expanse of Gladio's back.
The taller sighs and closes his eyes, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the other's.
They simply swayed on the spot, apologizing for things beyond their control, still unwilling to let each other go, hands roving to comfort than to confront, words whispered to heal than to hurt.
"I'm sorry." Noctis repeats, and Gladio is both thirty and twenty - asleep against his car and dapper in his suit as he kneels.
"I'm sorry, too." Gladio repeats, and he sees the terrified reflection of his younger self in the other's eyes.
"I forgive you." He answers, and allows himself to finally unlock the chains and let all the pain run through his veins until he's light as rain.
"I forgive you, too."
And then, somehow, when the pieces start patching themselves up, they finally match.
The bed is warm and soft beneath him, even though Noctis is sure that, on any other night, he wouldn't find it comfortable enough to get a good night's rest on - but after the upheaval, he's physically exhausted enough not to care. The air is cool, the wind seeping in through the open windows, and Noctis watches Gladio pull the shirt off him, watches the gold skin and muscle ripple, the inked lines of an eagle resting its hackles over him and his heart skips at the scene, a bit with desire, a bit with the longing - he had denied himself of Gladio for so long. The jeans come off next and, Gods, Gladio still looked like he was back when he was twenty, all skin and muscle and youth but now, things are different. They're too different now. They've had their challenges, separately, and they've begun to slowly accept and adjust to them, to the things beyond their control, to the things that made them human.
Gladio is in his boxers as he steps over to the bed where Noctis is sitting, dressed only in a really large shirt ("hey, Glad, can I keep your high school shirt?", "Uh, okay. Sure thing, Noct") and his underwear and Noctis finally realizes what that expression is, the one that runs through Gladio's eyes quickly, and it's simple joy - as if he can't believe that Noctis was here, within reach, and Noctis smiles up at him, tapping the bed.
Gladio shakes his head, smiling almost shyly, as he maneuvers his large form under the blankets. The bed creaks, and Noctis feels it dip and steady when Gladio is fully in and Noctis turns to shut the lamplight, only the moon's brightness cutting into the room. He tucks himself under the covers, and he's only a second still before he feels arms wrapping themselves around him and pulling him close.
Noctis smiles to himself, turning to face the other. They're too emotionally wrung to do anything more, and even if they were in the mood, it was too soon. The line of trust between them was intact but still fragile, their wounds still raw, still reeling from a decade of repressed hurt. It was too soon for anything intimate like sex. Noctis simply turns and wraps his arms tighter against the other until he hears Gladio sigh, as if finally believing what he's feeling - that they're both here, in this moment, slowly building back what they had so carelessly destroyed.
Memories flicker through his mind, like a zoetrope of their years together, all the moments he shared with Gladio and he's slowly changing the angle of his arms, the way he holds the other. He feels Gladio look up at him in the dark, sees nothing but the pinpoints of moonlight on his eyes, and he nods, allowing himself to change his position until he was resting atop Noctis, his nose pressed against Noctis' collarbone.
"I'm heavy," Gladio says and Noctis sighs and presses his lips to the back of the other's neck, his hands drawing shapes and tracing the lines of the tattoo encompassing Gladio's arm.
"It's okay, it's okay." He repeats, whispers, feeling the cadence of Gladio's breathing against his own chest.
("Shh, shh. I'm here.")
"It's okay. You can let me in." Noctis whispers, lips against the skin behind Gladio's ear. He hears an almost raspy inhale of air.
("Look at me, yes, Noct, look at me. Let me in.")
"You've always been strong for me, Gladio," He combs his fingers through dark brown tresses, curling his fingers in the way he knows Gladio loves. "You're always so strong for me. You don't have to, not anymore."
("I won't hurt you. Baby, let me take care of you, let me make you feel good.")
"I can be strong for us, baby." He says, he swears, he promises. "You don't have to be strong around me. You can let your walls down around me. I won't let go. Not anymore."
("You don't have to hide from me. No, don't turn away, let me look at those eyes - those beautiful eyes - yes, there's my good boy. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here. I'm here.")
There's a shudder, it runs through Gladio's body and the way it escapes him is beautiful, the way the arms around Noctis grows infinitely tighter, the way Gladio trembles under his touch, unraveling, undone - beautiful, perfect, his.
"I'll still be here in the morning. Always."
("I'm not letting go. Never.")
Noctis doesn't know where they stand now. He doesn't know what will happen in the future, the clashes they will surely face, the wounds that still burn and the distance that is still there in pockets and slivers, in too quick and too long gazes - surprisingly, he's not afraid. Or, that he is afraid but not enough to incapacitate him, not enough to paralyze him.
It still knocks the breath out of him, still has his thoughts reeling, but the man in his arms - the man he loves so much - the presence is enough, to know that he's just as afraid as Noctis, that Noctis doesn't have to be alone in being afraid is enough for him to stand and keep on going. They're at a precipice, on the edge of a million more precipices - at the end of a crossroad in a forest filled with crossroads, and they'll argue, and clash, and compromise but what they've forgotten, what they've just remembered was that they don't have to make these choices alone anymore, that they're here, both of them - in this moment filled with a million other moments.
"Believe me."
("Believe me.")
Together.
"Hey, Gladio?"
"Yeah?"
"...You're still helping me murder Prompto and Ignis at their own wedding right?"
"Oh, definitely."
"Come, Noct. We still have to get things settled." His father calls, and Noctis rolls his eyes and pulls the trolley behind him. The apartment in front of them is tall, in slates of grey and black, each unit looking similar with the other. The neighbourhood was lavish and well-off, as he spies the expensive vehicles and the well-dressed neighbours.
There's a shout of anger, female, coming from the balcony next to theirs and someone else shouts back, male and gruff-sounding, and his father raises a brow at the weird noise.
"Well, it's a lovely home. Not like the one back in Tenebrae, but it'll do. Anyhow, we'll be leaving once you're done with college. Speaking of, have you received word from the academy if your units were properly credited?"
Noctis resists the urge to make a face at his father. "No, dad. I sent them yesterday, just give it a few days."
"Just making sure, son. The academy is prestigious, might do you some good to join a club or something. Find something to keep you busy while we're here in the capital, you know."
Noctis zones out the rest of his father's words, his mind still in Tenebrae - on its flower-covered fields, infinite sky and gigantic castles. Insomnia was drab and bright and dull. There was nothing to keep him interested here.
That same male voice shouted again, echoing from the balcony.
Noctis sighs. Yup, nothing was going to be interesting here.