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When Prompto was a child, his favorite book was called The Toymaker and his Tin Soldier. It was about an elderly toymaker who, though he brought joy to countless children, was incredibly lonely and melancholy himself. But one day, the toymaker met an old crone who told him that she had nowhere to sleep on that cold, wintry night. The toymaker was destitute, and he only had one bed. Still without complaint, he offered the woman his bed and what meager comforts he could.
Before his eyes, she transformed, revealing herself to be the glowing and wonderful Shiva. Shiva smiled upon the toymaker and told him that she was impressed with the good nature of his heart, and because of his actions, she would grant him one wish. Did he want great riches, perhaps? Recognition for his talents?
“No,” he told her. The elderly toymaker wished only to be assuaged of his loneliness. He wished only to have someone to spend the rest of his years with, to not die alone.
The gracious Shiva nodded gravely to this request. She lifted a finger, pointing it at a small tin soldier the man had just finished painting. The tin soldier grew until he reached the size of a man, and with a gentle kiss, Shiva breathed life into the toy. “Now you have a son,” she told the toymaker, “formed from your own labor and hands.”
***
Prompto could not remember a time when he did not keep his wrist covered. It was just a thing he did. His mother had braided a thick band of leather to his wrist in such a way that it was impossible to remove without cutting it open. “It’s my gift to you,” she told him. “Never lose it. It will bring you good luck.”
But it couldn’t have been that special a luck charm, because his mother would unceremoniously cut it off every time he went through a growth spurt and replace the band with another.
Prompto saw the tattoo underneath. Of course he did. He wasn’t blind. But as a child it had all the significance of all the other strange things about his body, just like the whirl in how his blonde hair grew or the hairy mole on his thigh.
Prompto was seven when he realized that there was something strange about his wrist and how hard his parents worked to keep it covered. He was a precocious child, even at seven, but he remembered standing in a toy store around the winter holidays, the smell of ginger and clove heavy in the air and sparkling lights everywhere. He pressed his face to the glass. On display was a hand-painted tin soldier, brightly colored and intricately detailed. Prompto’s favorite book was, of course, The Toymaker and his Tin Soldier, and so he tugged on his mother’s arm, begging her.
With an indulgent sigh, she reached into the display and withdrew the toy with a nod to the clerk. Prompto turned the toy around in his hand. On the bottom stuck to the soldier’s feet was a barcode sticker. Prompto had seen barcodes before, but seeing it here on the tiny, brightly painted soldier made strange thoughts go through his head.
He was pensive on the train ride home, turning the toy over and over in his hand. The clerk had removed the barcode sticker, but he could not stop seeing it there. A barcode meant a thing was for sale, that it had been made.
His mother looked at him with concern once they were finally home. “Are you alright, Prom?”
The young blonde bit his lip and asked, “Did you buy me? From a toymaker?”
For a long second there was shocked silence, then she was laughing heartily, but even at seven, Prompto knew her mirth was fake. “Of course not, Prom. You can't buy children. Don’t be silly.”
Prompto put the tin soldier on the shelve next to his bed. It’s bright blue eyes seemed to stare at him in the dark.
***
In The Toymaker and his Tin Soldier, after the Goddess granted the toymaker’s wish, father and son lived happily together for many years. But unfortunately that happiness did not last. The kingdom was attacked by a neighbor, and soon it was at war. The toymaker and his son watched as young men went off to battle only to never come home. Times grew grimmer. Parents stopped bringing their children to the toymaker as money became tight. But the toymaker went on making toys, content as long as he had his own son by his side.
However, the tin soldier watched as the young men around him left, never to come back, and he felt called to follow them. After all, was he not made for war and battle? Finally, he said to his father, “I must go.”
But the tin soldier was young and foolish and full of bright ideas of his bravery on the battlefield. “I will come back to you,” he promised. “Wait for me.”
The toymaker felt his heart grow heavy with sorrow, but he knew he could not stop his son. And so the tin soldier went to war.
***
Prompto’s parents spent more and more time away from home as he grew older. It really started after he turned eight. That year, the young, sickly prince was attacked, nearly killed, and left a cripple. Suddenly there were grim silences where once there had been laughter. Even outside the home, the people of Lucis were strained and uneasy. The attack on the young prince and the resurgence of hostility with Niflheim left everyone on edge.
With his parents gone more and more, Prompto gradually learned the things he needed to know to survive on his own, such as how to order food at the local fast food place or how to do his own laundry. He learned that if he did not clean, then there was no one who would do it for him, and when his parent came home, they would be furiously disappointed with him.
He did not need to be told that his home situation was unusual. With the perceptiveness of neglected children everywhere, he understood that other children did not live the same way as him, that he was different and that different was bad, something to hide and obfuscate.
Thus, Prompto never invited other children to their apartment. Not that he had any friends to invite. He made excuses when his parents didn't attend parent teacher conferences. His mother had a terrible flu. She had been called away to help his aunt in the country side, and his father worked late, but she would be back next week. Yes, he would talk to them about his grades.
The worst time was when he was eleven, and he tried to make noodles and chicken on the stove. He caught the pan on fire and the neighbor called the fire department. That had been difficult to explain where his parents were, and it had nearly come to a call to social services before his father had suddenly shown up, furious and blustering and expertly distracting the milling officials until they were all gone. His father had punished Prompto, taking away his camera and computer for over a month. Or at least he tried to. He left the next week, and Prompto immediately found where his father had hidden his things. When his father came back two weeks later, the man had forgotten all about the attempted punishment.
Sometimes there were odd documents in his father’s study. Often his parents came home after a week or two away with injuries, bruises and broken bones. One memorable time, he saw his father hide a pistol in the drawer of his desk. His father didn’t catch his son watching him put the gun away, but he did see him in the hallway outside his office. “You are never to go into my study without my permission, do you understand?” Prompto’s father demanded harshly. Prompto nodded profusely.
***
Once, Prompto asked his father, “Are we originally from Insomnia?” The question had come to him because they were studying genetics in his middle school class. Both he and his mother were blonde and blue eyed, something rare for the dark haired Lucian people.
His father seemed to debate his answer. Then he replied, “No. We’re immigrants, like many here. From...Tenebrae.”
“I’m from Tenebrae?” Prompto asked in wonder. He knew nothing about the small country to the east.
“No,” his father insisted forcefully. “You’re from Insomnia. And never say any different.” At Prompto’s confused and hurt look, his father added reluctantly, “Times are—not good for people from other places, Prom. Better to fit in with everyone else. You understand, don’t you?”
Yes, that was a concept Prompto understood all too well. His father seemed to sense it in him, for he nodded gravely. “Good,” he said.
***
Another time, Prompto got up to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. But when he went down the hallway, he heard his parents arguing in the kitchen. Strangely, they were not arguing in Lucian, but some language that Prompto had never heard before, but it had to be Tenebraen. He listened with all of his might. Perhaps he had some innate understanding of the language from before they had moved? And indeed, there was a familiarity to the sounds, like a half remembered dream. It was there, just under a layer of consciousness. But try as he might, he could not reach it.
He forgot about that argument until his first year of high school. He was fourteen, and given a choice of foreign languages to study, he had chosen Tenebraen. He didn’t think his parents would approve, but they had not been around to sign off on his course selections. No, Prompto was very good at forging his father’s signature at this point in his life.
The Tenebraen language was strange and felt like mush on his tongue. It was all wrong. And it was not what his parents had been speaking that night in the kitchen. Prompto did not know what to think about that, but after the first week of high school, he dropped the class.
***
In the Toymaker and his Tin Soldier, after the tin soldier went to war, the toymaker was assuaged with loneliness like he had never known. He had grown used to having his son around, and now to lose him was almost worse than having never had the boy at all. As months went by and the toymaker did not receive word of his son, he grew more and more apprehensive, until finally he decided that he must discover what had become of his son himself.
As the elderly toymaker traveled, he met many strange people, and he had his resolve tested in numerous ways. But finally after many adventures, he came to the battlefield where his son had fallen. There in a meadow trampled to mud from human feet, the toymaker saw his son standing tall and proud, alone at the top of a hill. Overjoyed, the toymaker ran forward, but as he stood before his wayward son, the toymaker dropped to his knees in grief.
The toymaker’s son was a tin soldier once more. Lifeless as a statue. Away from his father and the life that had been breathed into him, he had reverted to his original nature once more. The toymaker howled in despair at the heavens. He called to Shiva, naming her betrayer. She had promised a son to stay by his side for the rest of his life, and now it was all gone.
Hearing herself called, Shiva descended to speak to the toymaker who had once so graciously offered her shelter. There was pity in her eyes as she spoke to him “I did not do this, human. Your son was foolish to leave all the things that made him a boy behind and seek out war.”
“Bring him back,” begged the toymaker.
“I cannot,” replied Shiva sadly. “I cannot.”
***
The leather wrist band stayed on Prompto’s arm throughout most of his childhood. However, when he was twelve, he decided that he was not going to let his lonely lifestyle get the better of him. He started to exercise and eat right, and slowly but surely, he began to lose weight.
His parents noticed. Of course they did. Being gone for long stretches of time made the changes in their son all the more apparent. But what his mother did not consider was that losing weight would necessarily thin away the fat underneath Prompto’s wristband.
He had not changed the leather band in quite some time, having stabilized his growth somewhat, and thus, it was worn thin from wear. Hanging loose let it rub back and forth and wear even thinner, until one winter day it snapped while he was idly rubbing at in class. Prompto was so shaken by this that he asked to go to the bathroom. There, alone in front of the mirror, he stared at it.
Prompto was pale, but the skin under his band was ghoulishly white and sickly looking. It was ugly, and something inside Prompto quailed at the thought of anyone seeing it. The pale skin, the strange barcode, it was all too odd and . . . different, and Prompto was tired of being different.
He pulled his sleeve down, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Walking back to class, he passed by the front office and entrance hall. He stopped. Next to the front door was the student store, a small booth that sold snacks, umbrellas, hoodies, water bottles, and also track gear. Hanging on the back wall were cotton wrist wraps in the school colors. With shaking hands, Prompto bought two and slid one on each wrist. Then he went back to class.
A week later, his parents came home. His father had a black eye, and his mother seemed worn and tired. But she noticed the lack of leather band immediately. Grabbing the blonde’s hand, she snatched his forearm and glared at the wrist wrap that still covered it. “Did anyone see?” she hissed.
Prompto stared at his mother in alarm. “No,” he said with a gulp. “No one. I swear.” She stared at him for a moment longer, as if trying to catch him in the lie. Feeling under attack, Prompto added, “I wouldn’t—I don’t want.” He didn’t know how to finish his thought.
His father rescued the conversation smoothly. “Remember what I told you, Prom. It’s not a good time to be different in Insomnia. You understand, don’t you, son?”
As his mom dropped his wrist, Prompto replied quietly, “Yes, I understand.”
***
When Prompto was fifteen, he and Noctis went to see a movie together. It was annoying because Noctis was recognized immediately, and several teen girls spent a good portion of the movie whispering and taking pictures of them. Noctis didn’t seem to notice, but Prompto saw his fists clench against the seat rest, and he did his best to cheer his friend up.
The movie was some goofy spy flick about an Altissian commoner that was mistaken for a spy and accidently sent to Niflheim on a mission. There, the character spent a lot of time having hilarious miscommunications with people who did not speak his language.
Prompto recognized the language his parents had been arguing in all those years ago immediately. Again, he felt that strange sense of recollection. As he listened, every now and then his mind would supply the meaning of a word he had never heard before. It was disconcerting.
After the movie was over, Prompto turned to Noctis and asked, “The Niflheimians in the movie. What language were they speaking?”
Noctis looked at his friend, nonplussed. “Um, Niflheimian. You know, because they’re from Niflheim?” He raised an eyebrow at Prompto.
Prompto rubbed the back of his head and laughed weakly. “Of course, duh.” Quietly he wondered, why would two people supposedly from Tenebrae argue in Niflheimian when they were alone?
After the movie, they went to the arcade. Before befriending Noctis, it had always seemed strange to go alone, like plastering a sign on his face to remind himself that he had no friends. But with Noctis, the chaos of the arcade was exciting. Noctis had been coming here for years, and the patrons and workers had all gotten used to his presence, so that the arcade wasn’t as stifling as other public places.
Prompto remembered the first time he had held a fake gun in his hand. It had felt strange, too light and badly balanced. When he shot at the screen for the first time, he missed wildly, and Noctis laughed at him. He laughed also, too happy to see the smile on friend’s face to begrudge him a joke at the blonde’s expense.
But still, something tight and competitive curled within Prompto as he examined the plastic weapon and considered where he had gone wrong. He tried again, and he failed just as miserably. So he tried again and again, until something about the balance of the stupid thing and the slightly off center laser pointer clicked, and he was shooting pixelated zombie after zombie.
He never lost to Noctis again. The prince took his relegation to second place good naturedly, mostly because he could still demolish Prompto at anything racing related. But Prompto’s hand-eye coordination became legendary at their favorite arcade, and he was a much sought after competitor in all the games that required precise movements or shooting.
***
Prompto did not realize that he loved his prince in one flashpoint moment. Rather it happened over a few successive months as they slowly began hanging out more and more during their freshman year. Noctis did not know that Prompto had been the one to call the ambulance for him at that party the first week of school, at least not at first. But soon after, Prompto walked up the prince and introduced himself, figuring if he was brave enough to rescue Noctis from alcohol poisoning, he was brave enough to give Noctis his name.
Noctis was fucking beautiful, both in body and spirit. The dark haired teenager held so much back. He had such a deep well of feelings that every layer Prompto managed to peel back felt like a gift, a major victory.
Prompto knew he had little to offer compared to Gladio or Ignis. Both men were strong and brave, and each was capable in ways that Prompto couldn’t begin to dream of. Part of him thought that he had no business trying to insert himself into their complicated relationship, but another part of himself secretly rejoiced that he had managed what neither of the other two ever had. It wasn’t a competition, but Prompto had won in one important way.
He could make Noctis laugh.
He knew how to make Noctis laugh and giggle and relax into the back of his chair. Prompto could always tell when Noctis was stressed and upset, and he could always tell when the prince had sought him out specifically because of that, relying on Prompto’s friendship to do for him what none of his other relationships could do.
Prompto should not be as pleased by that as he was.
The falling in love part happened slowly. Prompto would feel his heartrate pick up when Noctis leaned close to him while playing videogames. He noticed the smell of the prince’s shampoo, and thought about it far more than was healthy. His fantasies, which had always been more female centric, began to feature a messily dark haired teenager instead.
Prompto wasn’t stupid. He knew he walked a precarious line and that he literally had no chance with the prince.
It wasn’t even because Noctis was straight. Though they had never spoken about it, Prompto was excellent at reading his prince’s facial cues. And Noctis was not very subtle. He stared at Gladio like a dying man stared at water, though the Shield seemed completely oblivious. Prompto had never figured out if Noctis was in denial about being at least bi if not gay, in denial about his crush on Gladio itself, or simply not willing to trust Prompto with it.
Gladio was everything Prompto wasn’t, handsome, huge, strong, and confident. He had the suaveness that being four years older and sexually active could give a young adult. The jealously ate at Prompto sometimes, but he also knew how shitty it must be for Noctis, and so part of him pitied the prince and his Shield more than anything. The blonde didn’t know every detail of how being a Shield to the King worked, but it seemed to be a lifelong sort of position, and that couldn't be an easy torch to carry.
The closest they had ever come to talking about it was when Noctis had asked him what Prompto would do if he had feelings for someone whom he was forced to see every day. Prompto had wanted to laugh at the obliviousness of that question. One the one hand, it hurt that Noctis had never so much as considered Prompto having feelings like that, but on the other, it was a deep relief. Prompto’s secret was more than safe.
One of them, at least.
***