Mature content. Graphic violence. You have been warned.
Happy birthday, Nocu! January 8th marks the one-year anniversary that I've been playing Noctis on FFumblr. This is actually a bit humorous to me, especially if you know the backstory to the entire plotline of this... fufufu, a rather morbid birthday gift, isn't it?
Please forgive me for any grammatical/spelling errors: I wrote this literally in the dead of night, finished around 4 AM...
The night was deathly quiet.
Halfway slumped over his desk, Noctis continued to write feverishly, further smearing the ink across the parchment with a damp fist. The candle he'd lit for both light and companionship flickered, almost as if chastening the prince for his hasty decisions. Sighing darkly, he took a tissue and attacked the mistakes with renewed fervour; however, to his great dismay, he failed to remove any traces of the writings, perhaps even worsening the situation. Given any normal situation, of course he would have loathed to continue in the current state. Disregarded the present as sickness, perhaps, and continued inscription upon a later date. In an almost dream-like state, he scrawled the same words over and over again, crossed them out in the same manner, muttering a sort of crude mantra under his breath. But no, he could not stop.
So many things on his mind. Noctis racked at the side of his head in a futile attempt to cease the endless stream of consciousness as he wearily took up the pen again: the unfriendly letters from neighbouring countries seeking monetary appeasement piling up; the transcriptions of the king, his father's most recent political activities in dealing with thus hostility; and, of course, answering the rare, private letters from whom he held dear. Irritation, of course, burned at the back of his throat, at the more personal aspects of his life. His thoughts played to the steadfast Gladiolus, behaved more like the prince himself than he'd generally allowed to be, what with all the concealment of emotions... Ignis, who'd arbitrarily disappeared for the time being to deal with what, surprisingly, he'd claimed to be personal affairs... and then Prompto, whom he'd but recently crossed at the local café, where'd the other's lewd antics had first set him off – ah, another mistake. He crossed it out before attempting again with the dirtied tissue – to no avail.
A monotonous movement, a regular, steady movement. He continued to scrawl languidly, no, agitatedly, as though the world would collapse if he was to cease his hectic movements for one second –
But it wasn't right, it's not right. Frustrated, he pounded his desk and rose to his feet and tore the parchment into shreds in a bout of emotion, throwing it to the ground. His breath escaped in punctuated intervals, spilling over chapped lips and fraught with present fear at what he had accomplished so easily, so quickly... his anger had been so terrifyingly real, so disgustingly and fragilely tangible that there was simply no denying its existence. Dazed, Noctis passed a hand over the fallen candle to discourage the leaking flame from spreading any further, his heart still racing. He stooped down to collect the pieces of paper into still shaking hands, vigorously trying to scrub the last of the already fading memory from mind. It was unbecoming to relent to one's feelings so hastily; it would simply be better for all if the prince could merely bottle up such negativity, prevent from being overwhelmed by what is truly "right and wrong"...
Of course, who was one to judge the differences for all?
Silently seething, he instead turned, searching for a bin in which to deposit his handful of broken paper, when, all of a sudden, his door burst open and the light from the hallways flooded his room. "Chya-ssu!" said a voice far too loudly for the time of night, then added something more, something ludicrous pertaining to the speaker's so-called position as the "First Division Captain of Prince Nocu's Royal Forces" having at last arrived... the second surprise was that the man had come barehanded, having placed his arms akimbo and downright beaming at the thunderstruck prince... ridiculous.
Noctis turned away, unwilling to deal with the idiot of a man, especially not in his most fragile state. He found the empty bin, was about to throw away the fragments of paper before the other suddenly took him around the head and caught him in an all too-familiar headlock. Irritated, he wrested out of Prompto's iron grip and moved away to his desk, where he took another piece of tissue to try away at the hardening wax from the candle. Prompto clucked sullenly in the background, flouncing about noisily as he chided Noctis for not "playing along", since, one knew, it was all a joke, the marksman wasn't serious, and couldn't the prissy prince ever not take everything so damn seriously? Etro!
Foreseeing an attack descending in his peripherals, seeking to catch the other in a too-tight embrace again, Noctis batted it away as he ascertained the pen that had fallen to the ground with his free hand. Lifting his gaze, he affixed Prompto with a bleary glare, his hands balled at his side, as the other's expression fell, obviously crestfallen that the prince had not tolerated his antics as per usual. Wrinkled noses and darkened eyes as the other crept closer. Love problems, Nocu? Financial problems? Just so long as the marksman was paid his due, there wasn't anything to worry about. Someone gave you the hairy eyeball in 7th Heaven? (Here, Noctis furrowed his brow suspiciously...) Drinking so much wasn't good for anyone, lover boy, he really ought to try something else if he wants ta catch his girlfriend's attention! Did he get dumped? Ah, maybe... Prompto leaned in, obscenely close, with that smirk Noctis ever so desired to wipe off his face... maybe the prince just needed to do something about that stick stuck up his ass, and maybe Miss Stella would like him just little bit better if he wasn't such a prick all the damn time!
With a vulgar laugh, Prompto flounced over to the other's bed and collapsed there, as if he belonged there. As if their most recent exchange at the 7th Heaven had not transpired. Noctis's expression flickered, said nothing for the time being. His vision glinted upon the borders of dreams. So long as he kept there, that stupid man who tagged along to his group so easily, and did not bother him... drawing an idle hand through the air to close the door, he again seated himself at his desk where he attempted to make headway into such large piles of paperwork, resisting, resisting to address the soft, genial breathing behind him. Then the arrogant question brushed past his ear, inquiring who on earth was this essay written for?
Noctis spun around, and, in a fit of rage, shoved Prompto. Stumbling back, Prompto's expression immediately changed, and he began swearing, swiftly righting himself as he advanced threateningly, jabbing an angry finger at the prince. Noctis knew nothing, absolutely nothing, he raved, rounding on the other. The prince was just some spoiled little boy who thought he had everything laid out for him on a silver platter, and he thought that friendship could be bought, well, not on Etro's wrinkled (Noctis averted his eyes, cringing for the other's benefit) did he think so! Prompto was tired of his bullshit and he was leaving, and that's that! Noctis had better count his lucky stars that Prompto wasn't a violent man, or else the prissy prince would be dead with that sort of attitude. He shook the accusing finger at him. Noctis was a damn lucky little boy, and he'd better get his ass into shape, otherwise the world would do it for him. Sidestepping him and throwing his arms up in an exaggerated show of disdain, Prompto was about to depart when his eyes caught on the new sheet of paper on Noctis's desk, and then flitted up to the original letter, propped up against books as a source of reference. The tell-tale grin playing across his visage again, he pushed apart the stacks of unfinished compositions (upending several towers as he went) and reached out to take the original letter, to dirty the paper with his unworthy fingers and no doubt to vociferate a lewd comment that had already begun to form with his permanently curled lips –
Suddenly, he broke. With a strangled cry of fury, he strode forth and launched his fist across Prompto's face. The blonde had hardly any time to nurse his wound before Noctis attacked again, again, striking the marksman across the face, the chest, and the other scrabbled at him uselessly, yelling fiercely, completely broken without the shotgun that had given him his name – and with a shout of rage and summoning some supernatural power, he stabbed the other in the throat with the pen, still gripped tightly in his hand.
Prompto gaped, his eyes dilating quickly as if he could not believe that the prince had done this. Noctis wrenched the pen from the wound and attacked again, pushing the other until both were splayed on the ground and yet he still attacked, seeking to hurt the other for his worth, finding the pen bloodier and bloodier and harder to grip – Prompto threw up his arms in futile self-defence, but Noctis merely drove the pen, nearly like a dagger, into his flesh and raked it sideways, tearing apart blood and muscle and exposing crimson innards to an outside that was better without. And when those arms became limp and fell out of the way, he attacked the main source.
He fell upon Prompto's body like a madman, ripping and shredding and hurting and bleeding, and all of his emotions flooded out, and he was laughing and the other was still as voiceless as ever and so he razed his throat again, too, almost to incite the other to complain, to invite the other to mock the "prissy prince", come on, weren't you paid for companionship? Weren't you going to at least fill that side of your duty? Haven't you a witty comeback for this? Was this not good enough proof that the prince didn't need idiocy in his life?
Breathing shallowly, now, he sat up, appraising his good work through narrowed eyes. It was over, then. There would be no political issues dealing with the body in his room; technically, Prompto wasn't supposed to even be here in the first place. With much difficulty, Noctis dropped the pen and heard it click, distantly, to the ground, though he was unable to unwind the fist still containing the last of his initial bout of rage... he took the dirtied tissue and knelt down, rubbing tartly at the blood that had begun to pool besides the cooling body, though of course to no avail. He stole a glance towards what was left of Prompto, feeling bile gather in his own throat, immediately moved away to empty the contents of his stomach.
The grin had remained upon the gunman's visage, as arrogantly handsome as ever. Death had not stolen the life from his glassy eyes, as if the other was still laughing from beyond the grave, as if the prince still couldn't do anything right, couldn't even kill this nuisance like he'd wanted to. In a last fit of defiance, Noctis thrust the fallen pen, then into the throat, where it stood proudly, like a tiny flag and Prompto's final affirmation that the prince couldn't win.
And those cold lips moved, parted to expose sharpened canines, a purple, snake-like tongue that slipped out tauntingly, to again reassert, verbally: You cannot win.
–
Noctis suddenly sat up, then, tipping backwards from his desk where he'd fallen asleep with a surprised yelp. Straightening up sheepishly, he found the ground devoid of any blood, found his favourite writing utensil still perfectly functional and fully accounted for... his gaze played about the room, hunting for any tell-tale signs of violence, premeditated or otherwise...
But there wasn't even the friendly little candle to give away indications of what he'd thought had transpired... he breathed a sigh of relief at realising t'was but a dream, a terrible dream, and his gaze softened as he moved back to his desk, where he tiredly reread what he'd written thus far...
The night was deathly quiet.