Work Text:
As he watched the sun finally crest over the Wall, Prompto felt hollow.
Ten years, they'd waited for this. That orange burst along the horizon, a once-familiar yellow creeping gentle through the clouds before the sky erupted into a brilliant, burning blue. Ten years of darkness, of soot and ash and dried blood beneath his nails that wouldn't come clean even when he ran a blade beneath them. Ten fucking years of daemons, all for this.
It wasn't even the right blue.
Prompto blinked against the dry heat behind his eyes. There weren't any tears left, not for this. He'd left them at the campfire, in the dark and the damp for the daemons to find. For all the good it did him. The sun rose along the desecrated skyline, and it wasn't even warm. Ten years wasn't long enough to make him forget the cold bite of Dawn, the wind on his cheeks as he ran—recreationally! he used to do that recreationally—against the morning light, but it was enough for him to find he didn't really miss it. Not compared to the warmth of a fire. Not compared to the perfect blue he'd glimpsed—so briefly, one last time—in the Long Night.
Prompto wasn't so embittered as not to smile for the familiar face waiting for them at the base of the Citadel stairs. Sure, it wasn't the face he wanted, the face they all wanted to see again in the rising light, but the Messenger was a welcome sight all the same.
Umbra wagged his tail.
He was dead. He had to be, right? Prompto stumbled forward, knees hitting the floor so hard the sound echoed along the metal floor, but it didn't matter because it was him.
"Noct."
"Yeah, it's me," he said, beautiful and resplendent and impossible, "I got you. Are you hurt?"
And Prompto couldn't answer, because he was too busy staring into that desperate, perfect, devastating blue, hands grasping towards but unwilling to touch what had to be the cruelest gift he'd ever received.
Whatever might have been said, whatever words might have pierced through his breathlessness was lost to the shattering of glass as Ignis—helpfully—cracked a potion directly onto his head.
—
They were in Zagnatus. At first, it was like a dream. Sure, he hurt, but nothing seemed to ever hurt as much the second time around, and he was too busy caught up in Noct's wake.
Alive. Noct was alive, and he was young again, and nothing matter beyond that as Prompto followed him through concrete halls. It wasn't until they reached the hanger that Prompto realized what they were doing, what they were running to.
"Noct! Wait, Noct, we have to head back!"
"What? Why?"
"We can't," Prompto couldn't think, couldn't breathe, when faced with the hard glare Noct leveled him. "There's got to be a better way."
"Well if you have a better plan, I'd love to hear it!"
He was ready for it this time. Was ready the second he saw the flash of fur, already sprinting through the deluge of daemons towards the wayward Messenger.
He wasn't ready for it not to hurt.
Prompto was on his knees in a barely familiar apartment, an all-too familiar alarm blaring from his phone. He silenced it automatically, ten years of darkness not enough to wipe the muscle memory from his fingers. His own stupid face greeted him, first in his lock-screen in the form of a drunk selfie, and then in the reflection of the darkened screen.
He was in Insomnia. He was in Insomnia before it fell.
Prompto was out of the door before the thought fully coalesced, not even fully aware enough to be thankful that he used to sleep in his running clothes. He sprinted across footbridges, hurling himself through crosswalks and intersections without even pausing for traffic. Maybe, possibly, another version of himself would be in awe of the pure luck it took for him to make it to the Citadel unscathed.
Another version of himself wouldn't have flung himself up the Citadel steps, through several heavily armed guards, and into the hallowed hall of the Lucian throne.
"Call off the Treaty," Prompto demanded, breathless. "It's a trap. It's all a trap. Niflheim means to steal the Crystal and destroy the city. They're going to kill you."
Another version of himself might have known what to do with the sad smile King Regis gave him, but this one didn't. Instead, he turned on his heel, and ran until he found dark fur waiting for him in the foyer.
He waited years for this. Wasted years, for this. Prompto adjusted his sight again, one eye on the red banner off to his left while he brought his target into focus.
There was a big difference between a sharpshooter and a sniper, and none of it matter with enough planning. He'd been barely able to lift the damn gun when he first made it back to Niflheim, but now his fingers moved deftly across it, checking and re-checking every minutiae like running his tongue along his teeth.
Aldercapt settled into his throne—the same one they'd seen in Zagnatus, though thankfully not currently twenty fucking thousand feet in the air—and Prompto settled into his stock. Maybe if he'd only have once shot, he'd hesitate. But Umbra sat beside him, silent and watchful, so his hands didn't shake as he pulled the trigger.
Fuck the gods, fuck their ancestors, and fuck the whole damn prophecy.
The First King might have been an ancient warrior, the sort still sung about seven hundred fucking years later in public school classrooms, but Prompto was a modern Crownsguard; he'd brought a gun. No more dead Oracle, no more Adag-whatever, no more of this shit.
And maybe, okay maybe, shooting Noct's ancestor point blank in front of a god isn't his best idea, but he's tired. He's so, so tired.
But Umbra is at his side again, mere seconds before Bahamut can Astral-Blast-or-whatever him to pieces, and he knows he'll do it again.
He'll do whatever it takes to be at Noct's side again.
Prompto watched perfect blue flicker beneath long, dark eye-lashes, bright in the pre-morning light. The sun hadn't yet crested the Wall, but it didn't matter, because in Tenebrae it was noon and noon was a perfectly acceptable time for the Oracle to be giving a speech. Lady Lunafreya's voice drifted from the television, as musical as it was somber, as she recounted the lives lost and the damage done.
It was a little hard to act properly shocked, but Noctis had long since accepted that his boyfriend was maybe a little more battle-hardened than any twenty-year-old city-kid should be. Still, Prompto couldn't help but feel a little guilty for not being sad.
But, in the face of the Long Night, the Fall of Insomnia, and the siege of Tenebrae, a simple train derailment wasn't that upsetting. Tragic, definitely, but in a cleaner way than Prompto had gotten used to. And considering the date on his phone, if thirteen casualties and a single death were the worst the news had to offer him this morning, Prompto would take it.
Anything over another morning in Galdin, bent and defeated over yet another newspaper.
Perfect blue flickered up to him, just half-a-second, and that was all it took to pull him back to the present. To the soft snoring of Umbra on the ottoman, to the cold nose tucking itself into the crook of his neck, and to the dawn finally kissing the horizon.