Noctis steps out of the shower before he can fall asleep in there. Every time he moves a limb, shifts a hand, or turns his head his vision turns blue, remnants of his days, too much warping, too much magic all at once.
It’s better than standing still. Better than letting life push him on a track he’s not ready, not truly willing to take. Noctis can do good here, even if his errands are small and mostly inconsequential, they make people happy, makes their lives a better for at least a little while.
He’s lazy with the way he towels himself off, regrets it the minute he starts pulling on a clean pair of fatigues and the fabric clings to his skin like half used sticky tape in the humid, tiny camper bathroom.