eyes forward, focus present, and yet, each provocation uttered from his mouth feels like a vine constricting his throat, clenching tighter and tighter until life snaps under its ministration. ‘ warping is in your blood, ‘ he begins, ‘ if the kings of old could do it, so can you. ‘ it is a heavy burden, he knows, to be a successor to an empire with such vast reach. it is not by the grace of power passed down within his lineage that gladiolus believes he can achieve mastery of this magic, but by the strength of his will, the steel behind his eyes every time he rises from the ground. at times, he understands his frustration; the fear rising that he may not achieve the strength of his forebears. it’s shown in the way that his fists clench at his sides, blade thrown to the ground with a resounding clatter that echos within the vastness of the training hall. each time, he can only abrade his patience, ‘ get up, ‘ he’d say, ‘ we’re not finished yet. not by a long shot. ‘ in truth, he is made proud enough that heart swells within his chest when he makes progress, when he lands a hit that sends him off kilter, staggering to regain his balance. with the way he practices more often, it comes as no surprise that his skill would grow and his stamina would increase.
as of late, however, gladio found that his focus was narrowed, impatient; almost as if attempting to exact revenge on him for a reason he knew not. verbal jabs became sharper, the intent to cut when he speaks is not overlooked. the build up of tension between the two of them growing by the day, present in the way he does not visit his apartment besides what is necessary, doesn’t push him mirthfully while he’s laughing about some stupid joke he’d played on him. part of him wonders where that closeness had gone― the wise cracks instead of blades meant to wound, the ‘ subtlety ‘ of how he always wound up pressed to his side or against his chest when he slept over. however, gladiolus does not let his change in behavior become an excuse for skipping his training, nor does he substitute his schedule for time with his new girlfriend; instead, he balances his time as best he can. their dates are a compromise of each of their hobbies ( she, with her painting and he, with the camping trips he takes them on ), and he enjoys spending his time with her. she is brilliant, eyes brimming with enthusiasm, and hair that he swears is woven from the finest silks. she is no fool― competitively striving for top marks in all her classes that she achieves with such ease ( the type who doesn’t suffer fools if she doesn’t need to ).
& suddenly, the intensity behind his gaze is all but deadly, an assurance that he would either succeed in his endeavor to complete the warp of drop his blade altogether and storm off in frustration for the day. he watches as the weapon cut through the air, aimed at the space between his neck and shoulders, while he watches blue light ( a ghostly fragment of his figure ) be left behind him. for a moment, his eyes roam and watch the light fade, only to widen when noctis’ weight crashes into his own, arms instinctively curling around his smaller figure as they’re left tumbling into the dusty ground. from his lungs is drawn stolen breath, both the impact of the collision and the one where he takes the brunt of their fall contributing to uneven breathing. there’s a moment when they’re both as shocked as the other, neither willing to move, if only for a moment. gladio expected to see nothing but pure elation riddling soft features, but instead are the traces of discontent and sorrow as he tries to scramble off of him, and gladio tries to remember the way he wasn’t at all disturbed with how comfortable the brevity of the moment was. when he speaks, his voice is venomous when it’s pointed his way, and his eyes narrow even when they’re not looking at him. it’s these moments he hates most when he represses every ailment he kept locked away behind lips of iron and caged heard. ‘ i’m fine, ‘ he’d say, and oh how his skin crawled at the very sound of them. it’s obvious enough with the hostility woven into his voice, even when he’d just accomplished such an incredible feat, that he was overthinking something. ❝ happy? ❞
deep frown sets onto thick petals as he pushed himself to sit up, ( eyes would find his if only noctis would look his way ). ❝ what’s with your attitude? it’s not just today, either. you’ve been a huge pain in the ass for a while now― you gonna tell me what’s wrong? ❞
he’s screaming in his own mind, words echoing back at him tenfold, rising in volume until he feels as if he might shatter like glass. nails drag against his thighs as he fights every urge to give in, give in give in. he is fragile in this moment; caught in the tremulous moment of do i or don’t i. it cracks at his resolve, batters against his walls, beats him until he’s black and blue. tongue clenched between teeth, he wars with the desire to bear his bleeding heart, or wrap it back up and hide it behind the walls of grief and pain that he so diligently erects when the pain becomes nearly unbearable. he breaks behind those walls. breaks and breaks until he’s nothing more than a shattered mess of grief and heartache kneeling on the floor, tears staining his cheeks, heart bleeding for a loss he has no right to feel. he couldn’t have that life. he couldn’t be with someone he loved. he grits his teeth, clings to his walls, and begs the sob not to slip past and expose him.
what’s wrong is that you’re with her and not me !!
he’s tried to find another, tried to find space in his heart to accommodate something. sought out the many girls who fawned over him from afar, painfully approached them and gave to them what they had craved for so long. attention and a smile, and words that fell empty from his lips. he couldn’t withstand many, left anxious and overwhelmed by the feeling that this isn’t right crushing his chest. and it wasn’t. nothing was right. he could only see amber when he looked at them, eyes too green, lacking in vibrancy. the absence of black ink across their chest startling, upsetting. the smell of earth replaced with sugar and cinnamon. he was caught in the realization that her hands were too small, too soft. laughter not deep enough. she was everything he should have wanted, but his heart had already been given to another. there was nothing that could change that. nothing he did could alter this cursed path he had set himself upon.
for he loved gladio. he loved him. it was so obvious now, listening to his heart shatter in his chest, and feel the tears burn his eyes. he loved him and he could never have that. that is what has plagued him these past couple weeks. that is what his heart aches for when darkness descends and he’s alone, cold in an empty bed. it was wrong for them to have taken things so far. he let himself get comfortable in the closeness of their bond. twisted it until it became something he couldn’t have. king and shield. that’s what they were, that’s what they would always be. that’s all they could be.
he still hasn’t spoken, and he knows the longer he’s silent, the harder gladio will be on him to reveal what wars within. already he knows that something is wrong, something more than usual and noctis knows he can’t talk about this yet. he can’t. he can’t face the rejection, the notion that gladio would never love him like this. could never love him as if breath came only in the form of the other’s life. as if his heart could only beat if the others did. so much of what he wanted was entwined with this man, and it was impossible. he didn’t want to face that, and he wouldn’t. instead he lets the harsh reality of his life take over, giving him fuel to an anger that simmered beneath the grief and pain, and pushes it forward. being angry was easy too. being angry helped him survive.
❛ you’re my problem. ❜ i can’t get you out of my head, out of my heart. it sits on his tongue, so ready to be released but he swallows, jaw grit, and barrels forward. ❛ don’t you know when to quit? i get it. i have a lot to live up to. ❜ a lot to live up to, a lot to give up, a lot he can’t have. he’s fully aware of everything that his title demands of him. he’s known for years when others think he’s too self-absorbed. he’s not so stupid as to be blind to the life that awaits him. ❛ i get it. ❜ softer now, still laced in fury, but so soft. i get it. you can’t be mine. he wants nothing more than to go home, to hide in his apartment, lose himself in mindless video games, take solace in prompto’s company, and bury himself beneath his sheets until he was nothing more than one with the bed. he rises, feet a little unsteady beneath him, but he refuses to seek help in this moment. he just wants to be out of his presence. ❛ i'm going home. ❜
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