Chapter Text
*~*To be Brave is to Have Been First Afraid*~*
*~*~*
*~*~*Ignis Scientia*~*~*
*~*~*
By the next day, Gladio kept his promise and gave Ignis the new laptop. The computer was better quality than Ignis could have ever hoped for, better even than his Citadel issued one. Even so, it still took him endless hours to catalogue the massive amount of information that Ulrich had gathered for him. And that was just to see the basics of what he even had. He still needed to crunch the data, to find the hidden truths deep within the numbers, lists, inventories, schedules, and back orders.
The search consumed him, every waking hour that was not spent on his remaining duties or keeping up pretenses was devoted to cross referencing, pattern searching, and so on. He even pretended to be sick for a few days, just to have an excuse to spend more time holed up in his room. He let the rumor spread that he was depressed, that he was taking his separation from Noctis distressingly hard. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but Ignis normally took care to seem as unflappable possible as part of his attempt overcome the bias against his age.
The problem was that Ignis didn’t quite know what he was looking for. He knew that the kidnappers had possessed marked ethers and magic flasks from the Citadel. And he knew that someone had later stolen those flasks back from the Kingsglaive evidence locker. That coupled with the Citadel radio the kidnappers had possessed told Ignis that the perpetrator or perpetrators were most likely from within the Citadel itself.
Thus, the ultimate question was, where in the Citadel had the original ethers and magic flasks gone missing? Had someone taken them from the inventory store room? From a Kingsglaive member? Each unit leader in both the Kingsglaive and the Crownsguard was responsible for seeing his or her unit well stocked. Thus, a unit leader or someone even higher would potentially be able to access large amounts of ethers from the inventory storage without arousing too much suspicion. Either way, Ignis was certain that if he could just find out who had taken those ethers, it would lead him to whoever in the Citadel had connections with this terrorist group, and thus, who was a danger to Noctis.
One morning, about a week and a half after he had gotten the laptop from Gladio, Ignis happened to go on his monthly errand run to the inventory storage facility, the very same one he was spending so much time investigating. It was part of his job to see that Noctis was well stocked on empty flasks since the prince’s prodigious Elemancy gift, often overlooked for his royal magic, meant that he constantly collected stray magical energy like static.
However, when Ignis arrived that morning, rather than the quiet office he was used to, he heard ferocious yelling. “Two years! Two years of precious work down the drain because you cannot be bothered to use what little brains the Gods bestowed upon you!”
Ignis turned the corner, expecting to find some angry supervisor. But instead, he came face to face with an ancient, heavy set woman whom he immediately recognized as Noctis’ childhood Elemancy tutor, Willa Baumann. Except that Willa happened to be one of the most delightfully cheerful people that Ignis had ever had the pleasure to meet. Her voice was perpetually raised to combat her severe hearing loss (Ignis had heard it was due to years of magic caused explosions) but never in anger, at least not that Ignis had ever heard. Thus, this scene was rather—odd.
The secretary manning the front desk squeaked, “Ma’am, I understand your frustration—.”
She cut the him off with a bellowing roar. “You understand, do you? Bah! The only thing you understand is the relationship between that stunted mushroom hanging from your testicles and your hand.”
At that point, Ignis entered the room. Willa turned sharply as if she were about to set her wrath upon him as well, before she paused.
“Oh, Master Scientia, it’s been too long,” she greeted pleasantly. Her voice boomed across the small room, and Ignis had to fight not to wince.
He answered her with a cautious look. “Yes, it has.”
The administrator frantically crossed his hands into an X and shook his head at Ignis from behind the counter as she continued, “Have you also come to access the magic flask storage?”
Ignis ignored the other man. “I—,” he began, but Willa scathingly spoke over him, voice abruptly raising several registers. “Well, I regret to inform you that the Citadel high authority has decided in its infinite wisdom to ban all access to its own magic storage facility. Never mind that I was here when most of those idiots in authority were still latched onto their mother’s tits!” She said “authority” with all the contemptuous venom of a grandmother whose grandchild had grown rather uppity recently.
“Both Councilor Amicitia and Captain Drautos signed this order. I can't just ignore it,” the administrator pleaded, looking desperate.
Knowing it would put him in the line of fire, Ignis nevertheless felt compelled to try his hand at diplomacy, if only to help this poor administrator. “May I ask you why you need to access the magic storage at this very moment? Could you not speak Councilor Amicitia and ask for help in correcting this misunderstanding?”
“Because of the Speculoelemental Flask Degradation!” she roared with a frustrated wave.
Ignis blinked, not sure he had heard her correctly. “Excuse me?”
She continued on as if he hadn’t spoken. “The degradation must be measured at precisely the same time every morning. Obviously. This is the most ambitious experiment on speculoelemental flask degradation in twenty years, and I will not have the quality of my data ruined by this twit!”
“I see,” Ignis said rather faintly. He looked at the administrator, then back at Willa. “Just to be clear, you’ve been measuring this, ah, degradation of the magic flasks in the Citadel storage every single morning for two full years?” He supposed it made sense that she would have to be doing something with her time. After all, Noctis hadn’t needed an Elemancy tutor for several years now.
But Willa shook her head at him pityingly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I send my TA to do it.”
She peered closer at Ignis, her voice almost offhand as she explained, “I’m at the university now; I thought you knew. They wanted me to write a paper on the differences between the Camporee method of securing energy from mineral deposits and the Trentonian method, as really there are so few left who truly grasp the Camporee method.”
Before he could cut off that bit of rambling, she seemed to realize she had gone off topic. “But you aren’t interested in all that, are you, my dear? Of course, studying Speculoelemental Flask Degradation is going to be far more impactful for the future, especially with this endless war going the way it is. Nasty business. So you see, when Timothy came to see me this morning, all in a huff—.”
“Thom,” the administrator interrupted with a heavy sigh.
“—What’s that? You need to speak up. Anyway, when Timothy told me what happened, I knew I needed to come here and set things right, as quickly as possible. The longer I am forced to stand here, the worse the data difference becomes! Honestly, the ideas that go through those meat-lumps heads sometimes. Closing down the magical storage? Ridiculous.”
Ignis had not followed a majority of that tirade, but he still had a blazing moment of comprehension as she turned back to the administrator, clearly about to resume where she had left off. “Wait. How do you record your data for this project?” he asked abruptly. He had no idea what Speculoelemental Flask Degradation was, but since it had the word flask and the word degradation in it, that seemed promising.
She stopped and huffed at him, “With a Speculoelemental Meter. What? Did you think we sacrificed a Chocobo and asked the Gods for guidance?” Before he could answer, she continued, “No, of course not. I invented the degradation meter myself—Had to solve the problem of the machine’s own magical signature interfering with the readings. The finished product measures the degradation of both elemental and recovery flasks with less than .01% interference. Of course, the fact that it weighs one-hundred and twelve pounds is a slight drawback, but that’s price of discovery for you.”
“That does sound wonderful,” Ignis replied, once the tirade paused. He wondered vaguely if that meant that she made this Thom lug the machine here every day, or if the Citadel allowed her to keep a hundred- and twelve-pound monstrosity onsite. “But I was talking more about the actual readings the machine takes. How do you track each flask?”
“We naturally keep a hard and electronic copy of all the data. I assure you, we have followed all scientific rigor in conducting this study. It’s been approved by both the university and the Citadel administration, Master Ignis.” With this, she returned to glaring at the administrator pointedly.
Ignis interrupted her again, ignoring the glare. “I apologize, but what I meant was, how do you keep track of the degradation of individual flasks over time? Or do you not keep track of individual flasks at all?”
She seemed both thrilled to have someone to explain her research to and mildly annoyed that Ignis was preventing her from getting back to shouting at the administrator. “Well, they have serial numbers, don’t they? Timothy records the base reading every Monday afternoon after the new shipment arrives. I told you, scientific rigor!”
Ignis’ breath got caught somewhere deep in his chest. He thought his heart might burst. It was too good to be true; there had to be a catch somewhere. Just the idea alone—an independent source of data, something to compare the Citadel’s own records to? With an accounting of every single flask in storage, each day for the past two years, he could see exactly what day any had gone missing and what days they did not match the records. Then he could cross reference that to schedules, CCTV cameras, and even visitors’ logs. This was the missing piece.
He could barely control the tremor in his voice as he asked, “Would it be possible for me to see this data? It sounds fascinating.”
She gave him a slightly suspicious look, as if she couldn’t quite believe that anyone would honestly be interested in her data, and then she boomed magnanimously, “I suppose so, my dear. You did always have a knack for the elemental magics, didn’t you? I almost forgot that about you. Though, of course, at the moment I am far too busy, as you can see. You’ll have to make an appointment with Timothy.”
“Thom,” the administrator repeated.
“What was that?” Willa asked.
The other man grimaced. “His name is—never mind. Master Scientia, can I help you?”
Willa looked like she might argue at being set aside for the moment, but then she seemed to think better of it, and instead, stepped slightly away to allow Ignis to approach the counter. In his excitement for his discovery, Ignis had almost forgotten his original reason for being here. He’d also, far more dangerously, forgotten that the administrator was listening to his conversation with Willa. “I just need to pick up some empty flasks for the Prince.”
Rather than being relieved to take the excuse to ignore Willa, the administrator paled further, if such a thing were even possible. “Ah, I—well,” he blundered.
Ignis frowned. “You do have empty flasks for me, don’t you?”
The administrator stared very studiously at his papers as he replied, “The Prince’s commander picked them up yesterday, Master Scientia. I thought they would have informed you.”
Ignis did not understand. “His commander?”
“With him training with the Kingsglaive recruits, I mean. His Kingsglaive commander. They already sent someone to take care of it.”
Ignis felt nothing for a very long moment. Then a hot, hard ball of something painful that he couldn’t name sank through his stomach. All of his earlier exhilaration fled. “I see,” he said, and he was proud that his voice remained coolly neutral, betraying nothing of his dismay. He didn’t meet Willa’s eyes as he turned away. “I’ll have to make that appointment with you some other time, Willa,” he said.
“Of course, dear boy,” she replied, and he hated that he could hear her pity loud and clear, but there was nothing he could do to stop her, and he refused to acknowledge that he was in any way upset.
He could feel them both staring at his back as he left, and he had the vague thought that at least his pathetic plight had stopped Willa’s tirade in its tracks.
He walked back to his room silently, lost in unproductive thought. Once there, he sat on his bed and stared at the wall until his shoulders ached. He had never gone so long without truly seeing Noctis since he had begun working at the Citadel. He couldn’t count their brief tutoring sessions, not when Noctis always arrived tired and sullen, and their every move was watched. He missed Noctis like a limb, like a death, like he was constantly reaching out, only to find that his hands had grasped nothing but air. He hated it.
Ignis finally called Gladio, not because he thought Gladio would make him feel better, but because he had no one else to call.
Gladio answered on the second ring. “What?”
Ignis hadn’t planned what he would say to his friend, so he was almost surprised at himself for the first thing that came out of his mouth. “Did you know that Willa was studying the flasks in the Citadel storage?”
“You mean the speculoelemental flask degradation?”
Ignis hadn’t actually expected Gladio know. He sometimes forgot that though he had to cultivate his social standing deliberately, Gladio seemed to absorb the talk of the Citadel through some sort of extrovert’s osmosis. “You knew she was keeping a separate record of every magic flask in storage and you didn’t think to tell me?” he demanded, sitting up straighter on the bed.
Gladio just grunted. “I thought you knew. Everyone knows. She drives my dad fucking bonkers with that shit. She thinks the shape of the walls are bad for the confluence of magical energies or some shit, I don’t know. She wants them to completely redo that wing of the Citadel for better energy flow. My dad told her where she could stick it; like where does she the budget for that would come from? So then she got permission from the King to do that study, and she sends her assistant down there every day to be as obnoxious as possible, makes him take like four hours’ worth of bullshit readings. Poor dude.” Gladio audibly thought for a moment. “Think his name is Tim or something, if you want to talk to him about it.”
“Thom, actually,” Ignis corrected absently.
“Whatever.”
Ignis decided to let that one go in order to focus on what was far more important. “How everyone is ‘everyone’?” he asked.
“I heard that one time she caught him making up some of the numbers, and she marched down to the courtyard and yelled at him for twenty minutes about the sanctity of her data and the dubious nature of his parentage. He cried.”
Once again, Ignis found himself dumbfounded at the very idea that the same Willa that used to pinch his cheeks could make anyone cry. He must have never known her as well as he had thought he had. Apparently, she was vicious, though he still couldn't believe that she had anything to do with the disappearing flasks.
For one, Gladio had confirmed that Thom was the one who spent his time in the inventory storage, not Willa. They could be working together perhaps, but two, Willa did not have a duplicitous bone in her body. She was right that she had been at the Citadel for longer than most people here were even alive. If she had ever supported terrorists working against the Crown, then the country would probably have already fallen by now.
Though it was strange that her science experiment just happened to be along the same lines as what Ignis was investigating. Perhaps she was up to something duplicitous, even if it wasn’t as dire as an attempt to undermine the Crown. Either way, it just made whatever data she had all the more important. The truth was always in the numbers.
He considered too, what it meant that Willa had presumably been allowed to conduct her experiment for two years, and was only now being told her access to the storage had been revoked. He would not bet on that data she had been collecting, whatever it was, surviving for very much longer.
He should never have shown his interest, not when he wasn't sure who was involved in this plot. It was just that he’d been so surprised at the incredible luck of not only Willa’s project existing in the first place, but that he happened to be there at same time she was yelling at anyone who would listen to her about it. Then again, he got the impression that she had been making her feelings known for quite a while that morning. Maybe the timing wasn’t lucky so much as inevitable.
He should have been more cautious.
“Gladio?”
“Yep.”
“Will you meet me this afternoon? I need help with something.”
Gladio let out a slow breath, then he said, “I’m training with Prompto. I can't.”
Ignis grimaced. He knew exactly what Gladio was doing, holding his aid hostage. He’d cave if Ignis told him why the advisor needed help. But Ignis couldn’t. He’d already said too much, been too obvious with his interest. It might already be too late as it was. How far had news of the scene from earlier already spread?
Plus, if he were too honest with Gladio, the Shield might repeat his past decision to take this all to his father, something Ignis didn’t want to happen until he had true, solid evidence. With an inward swear, Ignis dug his heels in. “Can you meet me afterward?”
Another slow breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.” After he hung up, Ignis considered his next move. The obvious thing to do was to seek out this data now, before someone else got to it, especially since he couldn’t take Gladio unless he wanted to wait until tonight. Willa was probably still causing trouble down in the lobby of the inventory storage, which meant if he were lucky, he’d have the opportunity to examine her data without her hovering over his shoulder.
Thus, it appeared that Ignis needed to make a trip to the university.
*~*~*
*~*~*Prompto Argentum*~*~*
*~*~*
Prompto and Gladio did not talk about Noctis again, although it sat heavily on Prompto’s mind, wondering just how the prince was doing. Gladio had briefly explained that Noctis was in a sort of Kingsglaive boot camp where they taught newly covenanted members how to control their powers. “It’s about building comradery,” Gladio explained. “The magic lets you form connections with other covenanted people, makes it easier to work with them in battle. So they break the Glaives down and build them back up as a unit.”
Prompto did not think that being broken down and built back up was what Noctis needed exactly, but it wasn’t like he had any say in the matter. So he stopped asking about Noctis, and Gladio didn’t tell him, and they kept training together.
Then, about a week and half after his conversation with Gladio, the situation with his parents finally came to a head.
Prompto came home from school to find both of his parents in the kitchen standing next to a pile of suitcases. “Get in the car, Prompto,” ordered his father.
Prompto almost gave in right there. That tone his father was using, the inherent command and authority, he instinctively quailed beneath it, like he was still five years old and terrified of being scolded. He trembled silently, flinching when his father took two steps forward. “Get. In. The. Car. Now.”
This is it. You can do this, just like before. Just say it. Just say no. Tell him you refuse. But the words died in his throat. Prompto had stood up to his mother just fine. He was getting stronger and stronger by the day through his training with Gladio. He had told his mother he wasn’t afraid. Why was it so hard to say the same now? Why was he frozen in place like a rabbit?
Just say it!
It wasn’t as if he had never confronted his father before. He’d thrown his father’s gun to the floor in a fit of rage and desperation right before he’d run to Noctis, after all. But rather than the swelling of righteous truth he had he been consumed by when he had spoken with his mother, he felt painfully small and childish and weak.
It was the suddenness of it, he realized hysterically. He hadn’t been prepared, even though he had known this was coming.
His father turned to his mother. “Finish packing the car, Celia. We’ll be ready in a few minutes.” Prompto silently watched his mother grab ahold of two suitcases and walk past him. She did not look at Prompto as she did so.
Coward, Prompto’s mind screamed at himself. Say it! Say it! His father had never hit him before. He’d never needed to.
Prompto should not be this afraid to speak his mind.
But he was.
Only now, trembling, feeling like he was once again outside of his own body, watching his father put a suitcase into his limp arms, did Prompto realize how conditioned he had truly been by his parents. Don’t stand out. Don't argue. Don’t let anyone see. He had told his mother that she didn’t have any true power over him, but that was a lie.
Are you the master of your own destiny or aren’t you?
Apparently Prompto was not, because he was allowing his father to lead him forward. He was holding a suitcase up for his mother to pack into the car. He was standing quietly by as his father checked over the house one last time.
Someone help me.
But the only one who could be brave for Prompto was Prompto.
Prompto’s cellphone suddenly rang. His father was still in the house, but his mother stood right there, narrowing her eyes at the noise. He looked at the phone. The ID read Gladio.
Prompto answered the phone.
“Where are you?” came Gladio’s gruff voice.
Prompto fought to control his own voice. “Um, hi Gladio. What’s up?”
Prompto’s mother tapped her watch, her eyes narrowed and dangerous. Gladio remained silent for a long second, then Prompto heard him exhale and loudly move. “Are you at home?”
“Yeah,” Prompto replied, and at his mother’s look, he added, “Look, I’m kinda busy at the moment.”
Gladio ignored that. “Are you with your parents?”
“Yes, they’re home too.”
“Can they hear me?”
Suspicion aroused, Prompto answered, “I don’t think so?”
Another long pause, and then Gladio asked, “Did Noctis ever tell you about the code that we set up?” Gladio did not like to chat on the phone, not unless it involved one of his girlfriends. Prompto had no idea what to make of this.
“Um, no?”
Gladio ignored his questioning tone. “Well it goes like this. Ignis and I never ask Noctis ‘how’s it going?’ or some stupid shit like that, you get me?”
“I guess.”
Prompto’s mother made another aggravated noise to which he just helplessly shrugged. Any minute now, his father would finish double checking the house, and he did not want to be on the phone with Gladio when that happened. Not necessarily because he was afraid of what his father might do; after all, his father was already doing the worst thing possible. Rather, it was because, for some reason, he did not want Gladio to discover how he had capitulated to his father. Even the risk of Gladio hearing it over the phone felt somehow humiliating. He didn’t want his weakness to be the last thing Gladio ever heard from him.
“So when we ask, ‘How’s it going?’ what we’re really doing is giving Noctis a chance to speak to us without having to say directly what’s wrong, you know? So if I ask him, and he says, ‘I’m good,’ he needs us to call the Guard because shit is fucked up. You get what I’m saying?”
Prompto heard the front door open. “Look Gladio—.”
There was a whooshing noise, like Gladio was now inside a moving car. “And if Noctis says, ‘I’m just fine,’ that means he’s in danger or possible danger and he needs help, but he wants that help on the down low.”
Prompto’s father came back around to the car and his face grew thunderous at the sight of Prompto on the phone.
“That’s really fascinating Gladio, but—.”
“Who the hell are you on the phone with?”
“Prompto.” Gladio’s voice was suddenly louder. Prompto could almost see his face making that weighty, serious expression. “How’s it going right now?”
“Tell whoever that is, that you’re busy with a family situation at the moment.”
How had Gladio known? The last time he had felt it necessary to check up on the blonde had been because Prompto had used the magic. Had Gladio just sensed Prompto’s distress? Was that even possible?
Later, Prompto would not be able to say with certainty whether what he did next was purposeful or not. Maybe it was a secret, subconscious cry for help, or perhaps it was an automatic reaction to a common question, but whatever the cause, as Prompto’s father walked up to the teenager with his hand out, clearly intending to take the phone, Prompto said breathlessly, “I’m fine, Gladio. You don’t need to worry about me.”
A heartbeat’s pause, then, “Just to be clear, you’re fine or you’re good?”
Prompto immediately realized what he had done, but it was too late.
“Give me that.” His father snatched the phone from Prompto’s hand. He held it to his own ear. “Prompto is grounded until further notice. He will not have access to his telephone. Do not call here again.”
Prompto didn’t hear Gladio’s reply, but whatever it was, his father clicked off the phone immediately after. He put it in his pocket, then looked at Prompto. “If I have to drag you into this car, you will pay for it later.” Prompto’s father had never threatened him before. Not like this. Always be quiet and unseen, never touch the gun, never let anyone else in the house, etc., but the threat had always been something amorphous or small. It had never had a physical aspect to it before.
Prompto remained frozen.
Prompto’s father lifted the back of his shirt and withdrew a gun from the waist band. He checked the bullets, made a satisfied noise and then opened the drivers-side door to hide it somewhere in the car. It wasn’t the same gun that had lived in the study all these years. It was smaller, a pistol.
Just like the pistol Prompto had used to kill Viktor Cosvisch. The exact same model.
Was it a common model? Prompto, for all his unexplained gun knowledge, had no idea. But suddenly he was remembering Gladio interrogating their kidnapper, asking her what allies they had had in the Crown City. Where they had gotten their supplies.
Prompto’s father turned around, grabbed the teenager’s wrist, and pulled. “In the car, Prompto.”
Prompto dug his feet in. “Did you work with him?” he demanded breathlessly. “Did you know what he was planning?”
Exasperated, Prompto’s father replied, “I can't read your mind, son. I don't know who you’re talking about.”
“Viktor! Viktor Cosvisch.”
At that, Prompto’s father stopped his pulling and looked Prompto directly in the eyes. When he spoke, there was not a single hint of a lie. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Prompto. Stop stalling.” And there was just a perfect touch of frustration and impatience to his father’s tone, that it truly did sound as truthful as anything Prompto had ever heard.
“Astrals, you did,” Prompto breathed out. Of course. Of course, his father had connections with a Niflheimian terrorist group. All the pieces of their double life had always been there if Prompto had just been willing to look before now.
“Did you help him plan the kidnapping? Did you know?” he repeated, eyes wide.
Rather than answering, his father tightened his grip on Prompto’s arm and half dragged, half led him into the car. “Markus, be gentle,” his mother admonished, but she didn’t stop him. Prompto ended up in the back seat, squashed next to a stack of suitcases.
It felt like it was happening in flashes. One moment he was looking around the car, the next his father was in the driver’s seat, turning the engine.
Is this really how it all ends? Are you truly such a coward?
What are you so afraid of?
It wasn’t like Prompto could just fling the door back open and cause a scene right there in the driveway.
Why not?
Why not? Why not? Why not? His heartbeat matched the pounding rhythm of his thoughts. Just do it. It didn’t feel like a real decision. More like a burst of adrenalin, and his limbs were moving for him. He yanked on the door handle.
Nothing happened.
His father began to back the car up as Prompto stared at the door handle in consternation. They had engaged the child-lock. They had actually engaged the child-lock, sealed him in the car like a prisoner.
His father abruptly slammed on the breaks. “Fucking hell. What now?” he swore.
Rubbing his nose, Prompto jerked around, trying to see over the stacked suitcases out the rear windshield.
His mother had a better view through the side mirror. Tensely, she said, “That’s the new Shield.” She exchanged a look with her husband.
Indeed, a large, black SUV now blocked their way out of the driveway. Gladio got out of vehicle.
“Stay in the car, Prompto,” his father commanded, and then he exited as well.
Prompto’s heart pounded for an entirely new reason. To a casual observer, Gladio seemed completely at ease as he waited next to the SUV. His movements were unhurried, slouching. But Prompto had spent the past few weeks learning to read the Shield, and there was a bomb waiting to go off in that stance.
Prompto’s mother lowered her window so that she could hear what was happening outside even though she hadn’t joined her husband.
“Afternoon,” Gladio greeted genially, his voice loud enough for Prompto and his mother to hear, not a hint of how he might be feeling in his words.
This using politeness as a weapon was something that Prompto had seen Ignis do plenty of times before, but it was odd to watch Gladio employ it now.
Prompto’s father matched the Shield, his courtesy equally threatening. “Good afternoon, Mr. Amicitia. Unfortunately, you happen to be blocking the entranceway to our apartment. If you would be so kind as to move your vehicle?”
Gladio ignored the request. Instead he tipped his head in the direction of the Argentum’s car. “Is that Prompto I see in there?”
Prompto’s father’s voice lost even the pretense of good will as he responded, “Frankly, it is none of your concern, Mr. Amicitia. As I told you over the phone, Prompto is grounded at the moment. Now please remove your vehicle and stop harassing our family before I have to get the police involved.”
Again, Gladio appeared entirely unfazed by the threat. He didn’t move from his easy slouch against his car. “So that is Prompto in the backseat then?”
“Leave my family alone,” Prompto’s father hissed, rather than confirming. “My son does not belong to you or your King.”
At those words, Gladio finally stood up straight. Prompto’s father hastily backed up a step, despite his earlier aggressive posturing. Prompto’s father was not a short man, yet at his full height, Gladio still towered over him. The look Gladio gave the man from over his down turned nose was inscrutable, but after waiting a breath, Gladio turned away with a snort and walked towards the other car.
Prompto’s father grabbed Gladio’s bicep as the Shield passed him. “That is enough,” he began, but then he was jerked forward as Gladio just kept walking, ignoring the other man’s grip. His father groped at Gladio, trying to dig his heels into the ground much like Prompto had earlier.
“Markus,” his mother moaned from the front seat. Prompto had the sudden realization that there was a gun hiding somewhere in the front seat and this already disastrous situation could turn deadly in a heartbeat. Gods.
Gladio came up to the backseat window and peered inside. Upon seeing Prompto, he greeted warmly, “Hey there, Prom.”
“Get away from my son!” Prompto’s father roared as he shoved and beat on Gladio with his fists. It wasn’t that he was weak or ineffective; it was just that Gladio was so much larger than everyone else around him. The Shield ignored the flying fists, instead angling his body to create a space in front of the door. Then he pulled on the handle. Of course, the door was locked.
Prompto’s father remained undeterred by his continued failure. He gave up on beating on the Shield and instead, jammed his heel into the meat of Gladio’s foot. This proved more successful as the Shield finally reacted by wincing and shifting his weight. But still, Gladio did not turn back to engage with the other man. “Unlock the door, Prom. I’m here to pick you up for training.”
“He isn't going anywhere,” Prompto’s father snarled. “If you take him, that’s kidnapping. Leave now, or I promise we will go to the media with the story of how the Prince raped my underage son, and then the Crownsguard kidnapped him away from his family.” he threatened.
Prompto thought that this threat at least would surely give Gladio pause, but the Shield simply repeated himself. “Unlock the door, Prompto. I promise you that you’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
In the end, it wasn’t Prompto that made the decision to unlock the car door. At the sudden clicking noise, Prompto jerked around to see his mother leaning over to the driver’s side panel. She didn’t look at him as she said, “Don’t think too harshly of him, Prom. We only wanted to protect you.”
Prompto swallowed heavily. “I know.”
“Markus,” she called out. “Enough. Let him go.”
“Celia—.”
“No. At this point, we’re just making it worse. Let him go.”
Prompto’s parents had a hurried conversation with their eyebrows as Gladio took the opportunity to open the rear door.
It didn’t feel real as Prompto shakily got out of the car. Was his father really going to give up, just like that? What if he grabbed the gun after all? What if he hurt Gladio? Or even more likely if it came down to guns and weapons, what if Gladio hurt Prompto’s father?
“Is one of these yours?” Gladio asked, pointing at the suitcases. Prompto hadn’t helped pack them, but his mother pointed at a red one on the other side of the back seat as his father bristled with barely suppressed rage. Gladio took the suitcase and placed it into Prompto’s unresisting hands.
What was he doing? Any moment now, his mother would show her true colors. His father would follow through with his threats, call Gladio’s bluff. Prompto couldn’t just leave his parents. Life didn’t work that way.
But apparently, when it came to Gladio’s sheer force of will, it did. Because after handing over the suitcase, Gladio silently placed his palm on the back of Prompto’s shoulder blades and steered him to the SUV. Prompto’s parents did not try to stop them again. His mother only gave him a hooded, significant look, and said, “Be careful Prompto. Please.”
Prompto couldn’t make his throat work enough to answer her.
The Shield took the suitcase, levered it into the backseat, and then opened the passenger side door for Prompto.
Then they left.
*~*~*
Gladio and Prompto did not speak as Gladio drove them back to Amicitia’s home. They did not speak upon entering the mansion. They did not speak as they walked up the stairs and into Gladio’s room. Nor did they speak when Prompto sat himself cross-legged on the bed and Gladio took his customary place in his computer chair.
Prompto kept expecting Gladio to say something, anything, but the Shield did not. He didn’t offer Prompto a glass of water, or make his usual rough jests, or talk about his latest ideas for Prompto’s training. He just waited in utter stillness as the blonde shifted and fidgeted uncomfortably.
Prompto wondered if his parents would actually leave the country without him, or if they had gone back into the house and unpacked all of those suitcases. They wouldn’t abandon him, right? What would be the point of that if it wouldn’t protect him?
How peculiar it was to be wondering if he even still had a home.
“You didn’t need to do that,” he shakily announced when he couldn’t take the silence any more. The longer he was away from his parents, the more he was surprisingly angry at Gladio’s interference.
Gladio leaned further back into his chair. His voice was impossible to read as he asked, “Do want me to give you a ride back then?”
“What?” Prompto blinked at the other man. He hadn’t expected such an offer. He had assumed from their phone conversation that Gladio erroneously believed Prompto needed rescuing from some sort of abusive situation. So why would Gladio offer to take him back? It didn’t make any sense.
Gladio just repeated himself. “I said, do you want me to give you a ride back to your parents’ house? It’s your choice.”
Nothing about this situation had been Prompto’s choice. Nothing had been his decision. Despite everything, he had frozen just like he always did, let the tide of other people’s decisions rule his life for him.
Gladio’s offer had to be a trap. The Shield was surprisingly adept at that sort of thing. Prompto glared at Gladio for a moment, then asked instead, “Why did you even call me? Our practice wasn't scheduled for another hour.”
“Could feel it through the retainer bond that you were fucking terrified.”
Prompto’s heart stuttered several beats. He hated the weird mix of shame and horror that flooded him at Gladio’s response. It eclipsed all other worries with the enormity of the implication. He sat up straighter. “Wait a minute. You felt what I was feeling?! Like, felt it felt it?”
No, that was crazy. Even the crystal’s magic couldn’t cause telepathy. It wasn’t like Noctis had put a radio transmitter in Prompto’s head or something. Though, for all he knew, Prompto did in fact have a radio transmitter in his brain, but that was beside the point. He grew more accusing. “You never said anything about being able to feel my feelings! Pain, yeah, I saw that happen with Noctis, but this is totally different. Why didn’t I know that was a possibility?”
“Because this is the first time that it happened to me too, Prompto” Gladio retorted as he shifted forward in his chair, hands clasped under his chin. “Look, I knew that Kingsglaive in the same units build up a connection with each other, but I didn’t know exactly what that would look like with us. We’ve been up each other’s asses just about every day for the past couple of weeks. Guess this is the consequence.”
Gladio met Prompto’s gaze with a challenge, unrepentant. Prompto looked away. Undeterred, Gladio asked, “Now, you wanna tell me what had you so worked up that I could feel it across town, or are we still pretending that everything is sunshine and daisies for you at home?”
“Gods, you’re such an asshole sometimes,” Prompto swore under his breath as he continued to stubbornly face the wall, instinctively redirecting the conversation away from dangerous topics.
But Gladio didn’t miss a beat as he countered, “And you’re a fucking liar.”
At that, Prompto swung his head back around. Gladio hadn’t wavered from his hard stare. Prompto fought his desire to hide his face again. He hated himself for the instinct. How naïve he had been when he had told his mother that he wasn’t afraid, that he would not be cowed.
He said as firmly as his quivering voice could manage, “My parents aren’t abusing me. I’m not lying.”
No, they weren’t abusive. They didn’t hit him or starve him or let him feel like he was worthless. Prompto loved his parents. His father had read him picture books as a child, and his mother had always given him money to buy a small toy at the local convenience store every Friday, sharing in his delight as he built a collection.
And yet once, when he was eight, they had also told him that if anyone ever saw his wrist, then they might all be killed; hanged or shot dead in front of a firing squad. He understood why, but he’d never quite forgotten the terror of standing there, staring up into his father’s unforgiving eyes.
Gladio raised an eyebrow at him, so Prompto repeated hotly, “They aren’t abusing me. They’ve never even hit me, not once.”
“I heard you,” Gladio retorted, rolling his eyes, still not looking at all impressed. “I’m an asshole, not deaf.”
Prompto hugged his arms tighter around himself. He wished he could be more like Noctis in this situation, angry and aggressive in his pain rather than shaking and timid. “Then don’t call me a liar.”
Gladio finally began to look truly impatient, his deep, brown eyes angry as he stared the blonde teen down. “What were you so fucking terrified of, Prompto?” he repeated.
“Nothing!”
“Then you’re a dirty, fucking liar, and I’m going to keep calling you that.”
Prompto shook his head in frustration, fighting the tears prickling the corner of his eyes. “I didn’t need your help!”
“Now that I believe.”
At Prompto’s shocked look, Gladio explained, “I told you before, you’ve got great battle instincts for a little shrimp. And yet you were practically cowering back there in the car. You and I’ve both know I’ve watched you do the same shit before.”
“So now you’re calling me a coward too?” Prompto was aware that even as he said it, he was sitting shrunken into himself, still hiding behind his knees.
“No. I’m not,” Gladio snapped. “I’d have to be a fucking idiot to think you’re a coward. What I am saying is that it’s obvious no one ever taught you how to stand up for yourself.”
Prompto’s thought buzzed. He should never have let Gladio take him away from his parents. What had he been thinking? Gladio wasn’t his savior. He was just another person who wanted something from Prompto that Prompto couldn’t give.
Would they have really left without him? Abandoned him? It hurt to imagine.
Gods, he was so stupid.
Gladio didn’t give him much time to wallow. “Fine,” he snapped, “Let me ask you this a different way then. What do you want, Prompto?”
Prompto wiped the back of his hand across his face. “What?”
“What. Do. You. Want?”
“From you or from life?”
“Any of it. All of it. I don’t really care, just answer the fucking question.” Gladio leveled an expectant look, obviously not intending to accept anything less than a truth.
Prompto wanted— Prompto wanted—he wanted to be free. He wanted his parents to love him unconditionally. He wanted there to be nothing but raw skin on his wrist. He wanted Noctis to look at him the way the prince looked at Gladio.
He wanted to be normal, and yet, he also wanted to be special, to be as confident as Ignis, as powerful as Gladio, as brightly transcendent as Noctis. The wanting in him was so great, so enormous, that even thinking about it, facing it, threatened to swallow him up.
“I don’t know,” Prompto said.
Gladio took one long, heaving breath, looking like he was trying to control himself. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. When he spoke, there was something missing from his voice, something that Prompto hadn’t even known was there until it was gone. Prompto might have called it a vulnerability or a rawness, except that in Prompto’s opinion, Gladio had been anything but vulnerable during this conversation.
His voice perfunctory, Gladio informed the blonde, “Well, we don’t have any extra beds right now because my dad turned the guest room into a second weight room, so you can take my bed tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch or in Iris’ room or something. I don’t think she’s home tonight.”
“What?”
Gladio stood up from his perch on the computer chair. “Look, if we keep talking about this, I’m going to say something I regret, and I’m trying really hard to be better about that shit. You just do whatever the hell it is you need to do, figure out what you want to happen now. I’ll support whatever you decide. So come get me if you need something, otherwise I’ll leave you to it.” And with that, Gladio left Prompto sitting there on his bed. Alone.
*~*~*
*~*~*Gladio Amicitia*~*~*
*~*~*
Gladio was unsure of what to do. It was a state he did not find himself in very frequently, and he did not like that he was experiencing it now. His problems were normally rather straightforward, and their solutions tended to be as well. Noctis was in a mood—distract him with a back breaking workout. Ignis was working himself too hard—tell him that Noctis looked like he needed a night off, that they should all go get drinks or have a movie night.
But this thing with Prompto—this thing with Prompto, Gladio had no idea how to solve.
He’d noticed it the more and more as they had trained together, the way the blonde flinched, how he retreated at raised voices like a skittish, beaten animal. Gladio hadn’t put a lot of thought into where it was coming from at the time. Prompto was shy, awkward. It could be school. Could have been his parents, but they were never home. It hadn’t really mattered though, the why of it. Gladio had simply adjusted his training regime to fit the needs of his student. Confidence was built by repetition; do a thing over and over again until it was second nature.
Now, he thought, too little too late, that he should have considered the why a bit harder. Even if Prompto were telling the truth that they hadn’t beaten him, he also couldn’t hide the fact that his parents were the ones who had taught him to be afraid.
Some ugly part of Gladio wished that he could go back there and beat Prompto’s father until the man knew even a touch of the fear that clearly wound its way through his son, but that ugliness was a small part of Gladio, and he had more self-control than that.
With a deep, frustrated sigh, Gladio dug through his pocket and pulled out his phone, dialing Ignis’s number from the favorites menu. It took Ignis several rings to answer, far longer than it normally did. When the ringing stopped, Gladio didn’t wait for Ignis to greet him. “Ignis, I need your help,” he immediately said, “I know we were supposed to meet tonight, but I’ve got this thing with Prompto, and I don’t know what to do.”
Rather than replying to what Gladio had said, Ignis gave him an odd, flat greeting. “I’m good, thank you, although I’m a bit busy at the moment. Now what’s this about Prompto?”
Gladio froze, every nerve going taunt. For a terribly long moment, he thought Ignis was playing some ill-thought out joke on him, except that Ignis teased with sarcasm and dry wit, not this.
Gladio’s reply came out choked, “What did you say?”
His mind went into overdrive, and he was already racing for the kitchen, snatching at a pen and paper before Ignis said his first word. “I said, I’m good, but rather busy at the moment. In fact, I think I’m going to have to cancel on you tonight. Can we meet tomorrow instead?”
“No, we can't,” Gladio said, trying to keep his own voice as expressionless as Ignis’. “I need advice.”
“Gladio.”
“I think Prompto’s parents are abusing him,” Gladio rushed out, speaking over Ignis. He probably should have come up with something other than what he actually wanted to talk about, but his brain hadn’t quite caught up to what was happening.
Ignis was quiet for a moment. “I suppose it’s good you called me then. You should always listen to what I have to say first before you go barreling ahead without thinking.” Another long moment of silence, and then Ignis spoke rather disjointedly, “Well—it looks like an understandably nerve-racking issue that’s honestly over my head. Experienced, learned professional therapists have resources, experience, and training we are logically lacking.” Ignis cleared his throat. “Though I’m sure it’s not what you want to hear, I believe we should seek out advice on this one before deciding what to do. I don’t think a profound issue such as abuse is something we can solve alone.
“The problem is he needs help now, not after you’ve chatted with a therapist,” Gladio replied hoping that that at least was obvious, and his heart went cold at Ignis’ response.
“I understand why you feel that way, and I agree. But still, we do not have the resources to help him with such a sensitive and dangerous matter on our own.”
“Ignis—.”
“I’ve got to go now.” There was a click, and then silence.
*~*~*