Your tarot prompts have me thinking the Fool for Nyxnoct ;)
Thank you for the prompt! I’m excited to do some Nyxnoct, finally, so I hope I do them justice
The Fool: innocence, playfulness, recklessness
Noctis squints up toward the sound of Nyx’s voice. Where the glaive stands, the sunlight squared up behind him, he’s in dazzling silhouette. Where his head should be, there’s a starburst of light. It hurts Noct’s eyes.
‘Yeah,’ he mumbles. ‘Right behind you.’
When Nyx had invited him out with promises of some epic fishing spot on the outskirts of Insomnia, Noctis had been intrigued. He doesn’t care too much about nature — that’s always been Gladio’s thing — but he’s never been one to turn down a fishing trip, especially if it comes with good company.
He’d never known, until it came up idly during a spar one day, that Nyx was even into fishing. Turns out they were all nature freaks, back in Galahd; living off the land and all that junk.
So he’s been looking forward to their trip ever since Nyx had told him about some super secret spot nestled away in the wilderness, but he hadn’t quite realised just how isolated it would be.
‘Not too much further,’ Nyx says.
The glaive barely sounds out of breath, even lugging as much gear as he is. Thoughts filter into Noct’s head, idly, about Nyx’s stamina; with flushed cheeks, he pushes them straight back out again.
They’re following some old hiking trail that looks like it hasn’t seen use in months at least, overgrown and filled with brambles as it is. Noct’s surprised anybody even knows about this place — other than venturing out into the world beyond, this is the closest he’s ever been to the wall.
They’re heading up an incline, so steep Noctis has to use the roots of the trees crisscrossing over the path to pull himself up. He can feel sweat pooling under his arms and in the small of his back, and he knows he’ll pay for this little excursion tomorrow.
He decides it’s worth it, though, when he gets to the top. Nyx is already waiting there and reaches out a hand to help him up the last bit; as he pulls Noctis up by the wrist, the valley below comes into view.
It’s all sprawling, verdant green: woodland stretching out for miles, a lake glinting placidly in the sunlight. If not for the everpresent wall looming in the distance, it’s easy for Noct to pretend that they’re at the edge of the world.
‘Holy shit,’ Noct intones, making a visor with his hand as he takes in the view.
‘Right?’ Nyx says; Noctis can hear the grin in his voice. ‘Worth the trek?’
They still have a little ways to go, but it’s all downhill — at the bottom they find themselves at a riverbank, where the water laps gently against the shore. Nyx picks a spot and slips his knapsack off his shoulders, setting it down on the ground.
They take a little while to set up their makeshift camp. Gladiolus helped pack, so they’ve got everything they could conceivably need: fold-out chairs, food and drink, even a shelter in case it should chance to rain, even though there’s blue skies for miles. While Nyx takes a seat, Noctis summons his fishing rod and checks the mechanism before he drops into the chair beside him.
Noctis shrugs. He eyes up Nyx’s rod, secured to his knapsack with a strap.
‘Easier than lugging it all the way out here,’ he says.
Noctis expects the glaive to be full of chit-chat — he’s always had a pretty sharp tongue, in Noct’s experience, and when the glaives all get together it’s next to impossible to keep up — but they instead sink into a companionable silence as they cast out their lines and wait for a nibble.
He remembers watching some fishing show when he was a kid, following an elderly couple who used to venture out to the farthest reaches of Lucis in search of the big catch. One episode centred around a slow day, when they hadn’t been able to catch anything; the wife had mused that part of the fun of fishing was the downtime when nothing was biting, and the stillness of such moments.
Noct thinks of that now, and he’s never agreed with it more than right at this moment. He and Nyx may barely have shared a handful of words over the past fifteen minutes or more, but it’s comfortable; there’s no need for chatter.
They’re there probably an hour without any joy when Nyx dips into his pack and withdraws a canteen. It’s a good idea — Noct’s throat’s more parched than he’d realised, so he grabs his own and takes a sip.
Nyx extends his canteen when he’s done, wiping the back of his arm across his stubbled lip. Noct frowns at it; he’s got his own.
‘I’m good,’ he says, indicating the bottle in his own grasp.
‘It’s hooch,’ he says. ‘You’re welcome to it.’
Noctis wets his lips and considers the canteen where Nyx offers it to him. He’s old enough to drink, sure, but he’s always been a bit of a lightweight. He feels like a wuss saying no, though — he’s always looked up to Nyx, ever since he first saw the glaive warping about like lightning during drills, and resolved to be just like him someday.
He sniffs the drink experimentally at first. It doesn’t smell much more offensive than most spirits, he thinks. He lifts the brim of the canteen to his lips and tips it back to take a swig, and by the time he realises his mistake it’s too late.
Vapours hit the back of his throat like gasoline; he’s sputtering on that before the liquid ever touches his tongue. When it does, he decides it tastes like gasoline, too. He coughs, barely lowering the canteen in time to avoid hacking into it.
Nyx is laughing, of course, and he stretches one heavy hand over to clap Noctis companionably on the shoulder.
‘It’s an acquired taste,’ he says. ‘Galahdian brandy. Why don’t you try another sip?’
Noct thinks he’s joking at first, but when he looks at Nyx the glaive nods at him in encouragement. Tentatively, Noctis takes another sip — smaller this time — and steels himself for the kick.
It’s still sharp as hell, of course, but now that he’s expecting it he thinks he catches the sweet tang of berries in the mix, too. The third sip warms him enough that he’s starting to think it’s not so bad.
‘All right, Highness,’ Nyx says, with a wry laugh. ‘That’s enough for now. Last thing I need is the king finding out I got you drunk.’
Noct feels heat rush to his cheeks as he leans over to hand the drink back. He can’t be sure if it’s the brandy, or if he’s embarrassed.
‘So, Galahdian brandy, huh?’ Noctis says. He glances at his fishing rod; it hasn’t so much as quivered with movement since he cast it out. ‘Did you folks bring it from back home, or…?’
He knows enough about Galahd’s — and Nyx’s — history to avoid spelling it out directly. Since the Galahdians were displaced from their nation, Insomnia’s become a refuge for them, but finding a new home doesn’t bring back the dead. Insomnians haven’t exactly been welcoming as a rule, either.
Nyx leans back in his seat and tips the drink down his throat. Noct tries not to stare at his throat as it bobs with each gulp.
‘Homebrew,’ Nyx says, once he’s done. ‘Course, there’s a handful of bottles of the authentic stuff still knocking around, but most people I know’re saving ‘em for a special occasion.’
‘Special occasion?’ Noct echoes.
Nyx nods. He lifts the flask, wiping at the surface of it; for the first time, Noctis notices there’s an intricate pattern etched into it. Some Galahdian design, he thinks.
‘Weddings,’ Nyx says. ‘Births. The day we put an end to the war with those twice-damned Niffs once and for all.’
It’s easy now in the late-morning light, as Nyx sinks into his chair, to see him settling down someday; to picture him on his wedding day, fingers intertwined with those of his bride; to imagine him staring lovingly down into the face of a newborn child with his same dark hair and pale eyes.
Noct would tell himself he doesn’t know why he gets a knot in his throat when he thinks about it, but it’d be a lie. Back when his little schoolboy crush had been just that — a crush — it’d been easy to tell himself he’d grow out of it someday. Somehow he’d thought that training with the guy, getting to know him beyond the pedestal Noct’d placed him on, might help.
If anything, it only made it worse.
‘Maybe I can find a bottle we can crack open for your wedding someday, Highness,’ Nyx says.
He’s looking away, his glance trained on the river. His voice sounds a little distant; like his head’s someplace else.
‘Yeah,’ Noct murmurs. ‘Maybe.’
Nyx clears his throat and pushes himself up from his seat. He hooks his thumbs through the belt loops of his pants and gives a terse nod of his head.
‘Gonna go take a leak. My line snags anything, do me a solid and reel it in for me.’
Noct waves his hand in acknowledgement. He tries not to watch Nyx as he leaves.
He wonders how it is for somebody like Nyx — to have come from relatively nothing; to have his future up in the air, taking every day as it comes. He might have a duty to the Kingsglaive and, by extension, to the crown, but when he clocks out at the end of the day he gets to take off his uniform and be whoever he wants to be.
He’s seen Nyx and the other glaives, heading out for nights on the town; heard the locker room banter about the makeups and breakups. He knows Nyx has made his way through more than a handful of the glaives in his time amongst their ranks, and it brings heat to Noct’s cheeks as he tries not to picture the minutiae of such a scene.
With a furtive glance off in the direction Nyx headed, he leans over to the glaive’s seat and grabs his canteen, unscrewing the cap and taking a mouthful. If his thoughts are going to keep going in that direction, he might as well give himself a little Galahdian courage.
Nyx is back; cuffs him behind the head. It’s gentle — playful. Meant to chide rather than harm. Noctis’s ears burn from even that contact.
‘I’m not covering for you when you puke in the car,’ Nyx says, snatching the canteen from Noctis’s hands. ‘You don’t even wanna know how bad hangovers are on this shit.’
‘I can look after myself,’ Noct says. ‘It’s not like I never drink.’
‘Not Galahdian brandy, you don’t,’ he says. ‘Trust me, kid. You’ve gotta work up a tolerance for this stuff.’
The ‘kid’ — while said amiably — rankles at Noct. He knows that for so many of the crown’s personnel, they’ve watched him grow up from the brat prince to the young man he is today, but they seem to forget he’s an adult, just like them.
‘I’m not a kid,’ he mutters darkly.
Nyx had been about to lower himself into his seat; he stops midway and turns, rests his weight on the arms of Noct’s chair so that he’s right in front of him.
It’s a little intimidating, Noctis thinks, having Nyx so close. Not necessarily bad or anything — but it makes him more aware of himself, of the space he occupies. He’d been all set to argue that Nyx and the other glaives — the Crownsguard, too — baby him all the time; suddenly, he’s lost all of his steam.
He tries to hold Nyx’s glance, though. Tries to remember he’s the crown prince; that even though Nyx could out-warp him nine times out of ten, that even though he’s an esteemed member of the Kingsglaive, he still answers to Noct.
At least… Noctis thinks he does. He’s a little fuzzy on the chain of command.
‘I said,’ he replies, boldly holding Nyx’s glance, ‘I’m not a kid.’
For a minute, the glaive sizes him up — pale eyes look Noctis over, narrowing slightly in appraisal. It’s like he’s getting a feel for a new recruit, testing their mettle. Seeing whether their bite is as good as their bite.
‘No,’ he agrees. ‘You’re not.’
He’s still there, though, still leaning in towards Noct with narrowed eyes.
Being this close, it’s hard not to look at him — really look at him. Noctis takes in the straight nose, the little tattoo under his left eye; lets his glance meander downwards to the dark scattering of stubble across his jaw, to his lips where they’re curled up at one side in an amused smirk.
Noctis isn’t sure when the hero worship shifted, years ago — when he first stopped thinking about being like the guy and started thinking about kissing him. All he knows is he’s thinking about it now. A lot.
Nyx’s mouth opens, probably ready with some cocky little remark, and before Noct knows what he’s doing he’s stretching upward, his mouth finding Nyx’s.
It’s clumsy; he doesn’t so much kiss the guy as bump his lips into him. It’s enough of a kiss to count, though, and enough to leave Noctis mortified and pulling away, heat creeping under his collar and up his neck.
‘I… didn’t mean to do that,’ he stutters. ‘I don’t know why I—’
Nyx cuts him off with a shake of his head.
‘Respectfully, Highness,’ he says. ‘Shut up.’
Back at the Citadel, if anybody heard that from Nyx’s mouth, he’d be in deep shit — Kingsglaive phenom or no. Out here there’s nobody to remind Nyx of his rank, nobody to slap him on the wrist. Nobody to care when Nyx’s hand moves to Noct’s jaw and tilts it upward for another taste.
So maybe their first kiss was underwhelming, but as second kisses go, this one more than makes up for it. Nyx’s fingers delve into Noct’s hair, threading through it; when his tongue skirts against Noctis’s lips, the prince parts them willingly.
Galahdian brandy tastes pretty awful, but Noct can’t help musing that it tastes a hell of a lot better on Nyx’s tongue.
Beside them, there’s a whirring sound as something bites at one of the lines and sends it flying through the spool. Whatever it is, it’s fast — and big.
As Noctis slips his arm around Nyx’s neck, all but pulling the glaive into his lap, he can’t bring himself to care.
