I did a writing sprint and managed this noctnyx nyxnoct in ten minutes. Now via unspoken rules of the drabble sprint I’m not allowed to continue it but I kinda wanna.
Warp training is rough as balls. Half the glaives end up on their knees heaving up a week’s worth of lunches up after a full session, even after a few years on duty. Even Nyx, who’s taken to it better than most of the rest, needs a few hours of quiet and still after to recover. Weaving in and out of existence with everything you are in the precarious safekeeping of a blade? A human body isn’t made for that. It’s hard on anyone, any day of the week.
But gods, what it does to Noct.
Nyx opens the door to the sight of him plastered to Gladio’s side, more unconscious than not, in mid-calf fatigues, combat boots and a regulation overcoat with a blank ID badge, which means it’s an extra from the storeroom. He’s five foot seven of bird bones and just enough muscle mass to make him dense and cumbersome to carry, but going off the look on Gladio’s face it was Noct who insisted on making the trek on his own feet. Also going off the look on Gladio’s face, being allowed to make that bad call has served as punishment enough. It’s a mystery whether Gladio was born with that expression of equal parts irritation and concern in his arsenal or if it’s been cultivated especially over the years by too much time spent in the company of stubborn princes with no self-preservation skills.
Gladio says, “Hey,” and Noct croaks, “I’m fine,” and Nyx says “Right,” and helps Gladio get him inside.