“And I’m telling you -” Noctis dips, holding Prompto in his arms - “people can say whatever.”
“Naturally,” Prompto replies, and if his throat is dry from the proximity of their faces and his hands tight where they clutch at his shoulders, Noctis only comments with an unfairly attractive rise of an eyebrow. In the background, Regis’ tinny record player moves onto something inappropriately electronic.
Still horizontal, Noctis adjusts his hand at the small of Prompto’s back, pulls them closer. “My immaturity isn’t news to me.”
Prompto had, in fact, read plenty of newspapers in the old world, and was familiar with the tabloids then impression of the prince, too. “It’s bullshit.” he says, eloquently, suitably distracted by the shroud of Noctis’ hair as he leans over him. That people can always find a way to punish him for his decisions. It’s like nothing has changed, he thinks.
Because of course Noctis would have some funny ideas about what kingship entails, completely disinterested in oligarchy, divorced from his ancestors absolutely. The line of Lucis ends with him, and he will see that it does - he refuses to rule in a world that, despite a decade of self actualization and survival, wants him to.
Noctis smiles, something small and content, and his breath is warm over his lips. “Maybe they’re right,” he teases.
“Maybe you should pull me up before your back gives out.” Prompto smiles, a little reluctantly. “As romantic as this is.”
“Cheap shot for a marksman.”
Noctis straightens them both upright, and Prompto doesn’t miss his grimace as he does so. Prompto keeps his hands on his shoulders, the two of them embracing, and Noctis tilts his head while swaying them slowly, out of time. “I thought money didn’t exist anymore.”
Prompto considers this. "I’m the funny one for a reason.”
“Yeah.” Noctis admits.
They go quiet for a while, rocking in the middle of the king’s room Noctis refuses vehemently to refer to as such. It would be his room, if he wanted it: but Noctis hates this building, and he does, too. They live in the new Insomnian shantytown, same as any other, far from the Citadel.
“Is it passe to feel sad in your dead parents bedroom?” Noctis asks.
“Wouldn’t know. But you get a ‘pass’ 'eyyy’ from me!”
“Wow,” he says flatly, drawing back to look at him.
“Hey, it’s what you keep me around for.”
He laughs at that. “I love you,” he says.
“I love you too.”
“But that’s not true.”
“I know,” Prompto grins.
“I keep you around for other things.”
“I’m sure. But weren’t you about to bestow upon me your great wisdom, O King?”
“Fuck off,” Noctis laughs.
“But really,” are you okay?
“No, I was just thinking about when we were kids. Don’t look at me like that, I just don’t know how the hell we got away with half the stuff we did. I don’t know why he let us.”
“Your old man was nice.” Prompto says, gently.
Noctis scoffs. “'Old man’? Okay, you’ve spent way too much time around Cid. You used to be terrified of him.”
“Well, sure. Who wasn’t? But then I was lucky enough to fall in looove with the prince of all the high lands and realize his father was nought but -”
“Stoooop,” Noctis moans. “You’re awful.”
Noctis kisses his nose in protest, pats him down and withdraws. “Did we agree to meet the others for lunch?”
“Yeah,” Prompto looks at his phone. “About time for it too.”
“If the central elevator is capable of two trips an hour.”
“Oh, you can warp us down.” Prompto waves, blasé, walking over to turn the gramophone off. He lifts a large square album from Regis’ desk, and tucks it under his arm.
“Can’t.” Noctis thinks. “Or, well, shouldn’t.”
Prompto pauses, and turns back to his boyfriend. “Shouldn’t?”
“I suppose,” Noctis says, eyes lingering on the window briefly enough to catch. “Lets go to lunch.”
They go. The elevator works.