I'm still in a mindset of bumbling-accident-prone-prompto-trying-to-prove-himself and I was wondering if you could write something in that vein, like he's trying to impress Noct and messes up in crownsguard training, but he still likes him anyway, or something to that effect? (you're still one of my fav writers by the way. I can only dream of being as good as you.)
Author’s Notes: Thank you so, so much. I’m really glad you like my writing. <3 I hope you enjoy the drabble, and sorry it took so long. orz
Okay. Okay, he can do this.
So what if it’s his second day in training?
So what if he can barely hold the practice sword properly?
So what if Noct just casually announced that he was going to swing by and watch Cor put him through drills, like it didn’t strike Prompto through his very heart with terror?
He can still do this. He’s going to be on the Crownsguard. That makes him like an honorary badass already, right? He’s got to be, if he doesn’t want to mess this up.
The Crownsguard. Gods. Him.
“Argentum,” says Cor, tone flat and unreadable.
“Yes?” squeaks Prompto.
“Relax. Shoulders down.”
Prompto tries. Really he does. But it’s hard to practice the same block, over and over again, without his brain picking apart every little thing he’s getting wrong. When it’s done ripping him to shreds, it takes off running down a path five years from now, when Crownsguard Argentum, or whatever the hell his title will be, inevitably drops the ball and get the prince he’s supposed to be protecting killed.
“Argentum,” Cor says, with a sharper inflection this time.
“Sorry,” says Prompto, and tries to relax his shoulders.
Only somehow, when he relaxes his shoulders, he relaxes his whole arm. The grip on the handle of the practice sword falters as he brings the blunted blade down, and he can feel his grip slipping in horrified slow motion.
He watches the thing Cor swore should become an extension of his arm as it springs from his fingers. He watches it clang to the ground with a clatter of metal on stone that he’s sure he’ll be hearing in his anxiety nightmares for months. He watches Cor’s face, hard as granite, disapproval creeping in around the edges.
He can’t bring himself to look toward Noct.
Prompto dives for the sword, like if he’s fast enough he can erase the last fifteen seconds from existence. When he comes up, he knows he’s blushing like crazy. Even his ears feel hot.
“Uh,” says Prompto. “Just the shoulders next time. Got it.”
Two hours later, he’s sitting on the bench outside the training hall, hoping one of the gods will have mercy and strike him dead. He’ll take a lightning bolt from Ramuh. He’ll take a blizzard from Shiva. Hell, he’ll even take Bahamut’s whole arsenal if it means he doesn’t have to look up and see the disappointed look he’s sure is on Noct’s face.
“See?” says Prompto. “I told you, dude. Guys like me aren’t Crownsguard material.”
“The hell’re you talking about?” says Noct, and slides down onto the bench next to him, so close they’re touching at the shoulders.
“That,” says Prompto, with a vague gesture back toward the training hall. He’s blushing again. He can feel his face slowly going red.
There’s silence for a long moment, and Noct shifts. He’s got that look fixed on him, Prompto’s sure – that long, searching kind of look that always feels like he can see something hidden under Prompto’s skin.
“Quit that,” says Noct, at last.
“Quit what?” says Prompto. “Sucking so hard? Believe me, buddy, I would if I could.”
“That,” says Noct. “It’s your second day. You’re gonna make mistakes.”
“In front of Cor the Immortal,” says Prompto. “And you,” he thinks, but doesn’t add it.
“Cor’s been training new recruits for years.” Noct reaches over to nudge him with an elbow. “I guarantee, whatever dumb rookie slips you make, he’s seen dumber.”
“Great,” says Prompto, burying his face in his hands. “Thanks.”
But actually, when he thinks about it like that, it kind of helps. In the grand scheme of things, maybe he’s a screw-up. But he probably won’t be the biggest screw-up.
Noct leans into him, and the weight’s solid and warm against his shoulder. “Now quit worrying and let’s hit the arcade,” he says. “You still owe me a couple rounds at that new zombie shooting game.”
Prompto’s lips tug up into a grin. He stands and stretches, and he tells the worries running through his mind that they’re going to have to sit in the back seat for a while. “You only want to play cause you think you’re gonna beat my high score.”
“I know I’m gonna beat your high score,” says Noct, and unfolds himself from the bench with lazy grace.
Prompto flashes him a sidelong glance – falls into step as Noct heads toward the door. “I hit two million, dude. You got a long way to go.”
“You’re joking,” says Noct.
Prompto grins wider. “Not a chance.”
“Huh,” says Noct. There’s a weird inflection to it, kind of level, kind of thoughtful. He’s got Prompto pinned with a searching sort of look again.
Prompto squirms. “What?”
“Nothing,” says Noct, and starts walking again, with a shrug. “Just remembered something I wanted to talk to Cor about. That’s all.”