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beauvoyr · 7 years ago

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My Friend, Mr Noctgar | 2

EPISODE II | rich

Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Romance Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Alpha/Beta/Omega, no beta we die like men, Humour, Angst, Fluff, Size Kink, Size Difference, Short Reader, Self-Indulgent Characters: Older Noctis, Older Chocobros, 30-year-old Ravus Nox Fleuret, Ardyn Izunia, Aranea, Loqi Tummelt, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Homeless (?) Noctis Chapter Rating: T Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Transferring from Gralea to Insomnia’s already hard enough for an Omega like you. Luckily your new friend Mr Noctgar, a homeless Alpha who’s always skulking around Sagefire, is there to brighten your dreary days ahead. And he’s always there to teach you the best spots in Insomnia, among other things.

Another day, another trial by fire in NT.

“We are going to the Citadel,” Ravus announces one fine morning when he summoned you into his office. “Mind your manners, we will be dealing with royalty.”

Your automatic response at the R word? An exasperated groan. “Oh god. Royalty, just my favourite kind of people.”

Ravus raises a slim brow.

You might or might not have forgotten that he, too, is royalty. Uh. “My bad. Just had really bad experience with them. Well,” you hastily amend the longer Ravus stares, “that’s just how it was in Niflheim. Aranea hated dealing with Emperor Iedolas’ council and the rest of the nobilities when they have internal feud. Guy A doesn’t wanna sit beside Guy B because they terminated their friendship over golf, so we gotta find a way for Guy A to sit with Guy C, but Guy C is BFFs with Guy D and doesn’t want to sit with Guy A because Guy A’s Beta son is trying to marry his Alpha daughter so—“ you inhale deeply once the tragic tale reaches its climax, “—yeah, internal politics is a pain when we’re trying to do their seating.”

Even if your story is as cunning as Harry Potter, Ravus appears entirely unmoved at the appeal of it. Unfazed, his expression does not break, not even once. “This is an informal meeting, at most.” He unhooks his legs and circles his table, grabbing his blazer as you whirl around to follow his movement. “Be rest assured we won’t face any complications regarding seating arrangements,” he casts a lingering glance at you, “seeing how I’m not picky about it.”

‘Because he’s royalty, right.’ That’s how it goes. A part of you sends swift thanks to the Astrals because Ravus won’t have any issues seated together with the unknown at the Citadel—not that you know what sort of place it is, or what sort of crowd you’ll be facing at this ‘informal’ meeting. Scratching your cheek, you shrug at his insistent stare. “That’s cool, I guess.”

Your superior slips on his blazer and smoothens the front, eliciting a jangle of keys. With how the fabric frames his perfect Alpha physique in ways only a clothing can be illegal of, you can’t deny that you’re staring a bit too hard. That explains why his gear consists of another undeniably bespoke suit with notched lapels in muted grey, oxfords and all. This Citadel place must really be something—that or Ravus affords dressing to the nines daily just because he’s the prince with maids to do his morning ironing.

The Alpha only throws you a cursory glance when you’re fumbling to your feet, switching off the lights. “Pack your necessities and meet me at the front lobby in ten minutes. Be sharp.”

“Yessire.”

One final check of your reflection tells you you’re good to go. A hand flattens your hair to oppress flyaways, palms are skimming over your shirt, blazer and pencil skirt to free unsavoury wrinkles and knots, and you adjust your lanyard to put your tag on clear display. A quick inventory inside your handbag ensures you’ve got your tablet and smart phone all readied alongside a small diary for your daily jottings. Freshening up your overall appearance with another smudge of lipstick and a tug to your nondescript collar, you do a once-over before you nod, feasibly satisfied with your appearance.

NT’s lobby is all clear-cut glass with sunlight slanting on white marble, silver steel architecture with dabs of greens in decorative pots scattered here and there. You’re lucky the lobby and the lounge are within close proximity; at least you could rest on these grand cabrioles prepared near the reception area while waiting for Ravus to arrive. Glass sliding doors slip open every now and then, permitting entry to fellow Techies and visitors alike. Your eyes catch on the way hulking Alphas swagger out of their rides at the pick-up drop-off zone, presumably here to conduct some business with a part of NT that you haven’t encountered.

Staring at the crowd of Techies filing into a lift, you give a little sigh and turn your sight to the empty drop-off zone again. There’s a Bentley rolling up, a glossy grey with impressively tinted windows, giving you no leeway to make out the passenger within. Rich people and their fancy rides, that’s one way to look at it. You’re pretty sure selling your innards at the black market won’t pay off that car in one sitting. Trying to mind your own business, you almost drop your gaze to your hands if it weren’t for the fact that the window’s rolling down, revealing an Alpha in the driver’s seat.

‘Of course it has to be an Alpha because only Alphas can afford monsters like that,’ you gripe, only to have your griping cut short because it’s not just any Alpha—it’s Ravus. You don’t even need to look that hard to see him glaring straight at you from the window, thin lips pressed in displeasure. ‘Yep, time to go.’

Like Ramuh singed your ass with a karmic bolt for dissing their godlike Alphas, you smother all your belongings into a death hug as you scrambled to the exit. You would’ve yanked the door open if this were a Toyota but no, because it’s a Bentley and you don’t want to lose an arm in case your nails nick its paintjob, you dip your hand into the handle and carefully nudged it open. Sliding into the leather seat, you take a moment to marvel because woah this is an expensive car and double woah, you better not damage any part of its patterned dashboard, so you best sit still. The custom interior is a medley of tri-tone leather done in quilted diamonds, offering a sporty outlook contrasting its sleek build. Hard to believe you’re strapped in a ride costing more than your entire existence, but reality is a strange place when your superior is the prince. Better thank your lucky stars for this once-in-a-lifetime chance to lay your ass on posh leather.

The moment Ravus ensures you’re properly belted in and begins to weave into the Insomnian traffic, you chance a glance at his stoic profile. “I didn’t know we could afford a Bentley as our company car. We only had Hyundai MPVs back in Gralea,” you muse, comparing the glaring differences between Niflheim Technologies Gralea (NTG) and Niflheim Technologies Insomnia (NTI). “NTI must be doing really great if you guys could buy this stuff.”

Long fingers flick the blinker as he effortlessly exits left. “Don’t be asinine. It’s mine.”

Considering he is the Prince of Tenebrae, it makes sense for him to own a fancy car befitting his status. You can’t really imagine him chugging along in NTG’s decaying Hyundai when it’s so not him. “Uh, wow…nice ride, Ravus.”

He doesn’t dignify your compliment with any sort of reply. Not that he has to, just that it’s awkward to sit in here without making any small talk. For starters, you don’t know if he’ll bite your hand if you ask for his permission to switch on the radio. (He doesn’t seem like a Billboard Top 20 guy anyway. Not even close to a Spotify playlist for the Classic Romantic either.) And you don’t know if he’ll appreciate it if you start swatching fingerprints all over the window because the expressway Ravus takes hangs between ornate skyscrapers that seem to disappear into the clouds, something dull Gralean architecture could learn from.

As the engine hums in silence, your eyes gravitate to your peripheral vision again. “So, what’re we doing at the Citadel, boss?”

Ravus exhales, long and laborious, like he tires of your questions but he can’t exactly toss you out when he’s traveling at 110 mph and not make it seem like premeditated murder. “There is much to be discussed regarding matters of C3, Caelum Conglomerate, and Niflheim Technologies, seeing how this CSR involves two continents,” he offers without as much as a blink of his eyes, still fixed on the road. “In hindsight, TAFFY is merely a front for repairing political ties between Niflheim and Lucis. Despite the war ending a decade ago, public sentiments are still in the negatives regarding Niflheim.”

You scrunch your nose. If this is how he talks, he’s definitely the kind of guy who’d text in large chunks compared to you, since you’re the sort who’d machine-gun one sentence after another in an influx of spam. Talk about two opposite ends of the world. Shaking your head, you stare at a blurry Insomnia, fingers fiddling in your lap.

Back when you first interned at NTG, CSR sounded like another episode of Crime Scene Investigation (CSI). It was Aranea who took you by the hand and taught you the mumbo-jumbo needed to excel at the job. By the time three months flew by and you had to wrap up your internship for reporting at National Niflheim University, Aranea herself rang you up and gauged your interest in continuing at NTG. Being a fresh grad with 0 Gil to your name in this shitty economy and receiving Aranea’s offer was enough for the Alpha to earn her status as your Guardian Angel in Leather™. Your reminiscing tugs at your lips in the form of a downtrodden smile, sighing. “Well…I guess it makes sense why NTI would have to handle all these stuffs since NTG is too far from Lucis to handle CSR like this. We only did small things like greener factories and charity with the homeless.”

“Indeed.” Ravus inclines his head, exiting into an interconnecting highway winding through stained glass delicately wrapping a tunnel. Its domed archway fractures colours in intervals all over your skin. “C3 recently rebranded from Lucis University to reflect itself as an institution that accepts not only Lucians now, but talented Niflheimians as well. This is why joint efforts between Niflheim and Lucis are integral to mend the wounds of the past.”

You internally nod. He’s definitely the kind of guy who’d text a paragraph, that’s for sure. Though something’s still niggling the back of your head. “Is it okay that we’re not taking the team along though?”

Now, heterochromatic eyes have found a home on your face, if only for a brief moment. His brow is an elegant arch following his survey. “Meaning?”

“Well, you’re only taking me along—and I get that since I’m the senior and a freshie too,” you shrug, hands drawing abstract clouds in the air. “But back in NTG, Aranea’d usually grab Mr Biggs—ah, he’s our photographer guy,” you add when you catch a ghost of uncertainty appear on his face at the name, “and Mr Wedge to drive us around since he’s a pro at it. Are you sure we don’t need other people tagging along? Like… I dunno, Loqi? Or our team photographer, if we have any?”

“We don’t,” Ravus returns with a resolute answer. Large hands that are wrapped around the steering wheel look like they’d rather be wrapped around your neck. “Like I said, this is an informal meeting.”

Unfortunately, curiosity is a very nosy cat that reincarnated into an Omega. You squint at him. “How informal is informal?”

His grasp tightens. You think he’ll only need a hand to pin your wrists together. “(y/n)?”

“Yessire?” You perk up.

Ravus sweeps over your hopeful expression, grinding down on the gas pedal.“…you talk too much.”

And so you wilt. “…sorry. I’ll shut up.”

Apparently, nobody told you that the Citadel is a modern codename for a gigantic building right in the heart of Insomnia. ‘Should’ve known that C in the Citadel stands for Castle.’ Because it is indeed a castle, much like how fairy tales made a huge deal of kings and princes living in castles among the clouds, just that this is M.E. 766 and they don’t live in fortresses surrounded by rivers anymore, they’ve got Audis substituting prized chocobos too. You’re sure you look like one of those touristy figures here because it’s a little hard to tap into your professional façade when two titanic marble Messengers guard the doorway and your jaw won’t stop hanging at the sheer opulence this place is. Ravus seems mildly peeved when you’re busy being floored by the size of those pantheon columns decked in gold and black, red ropes cordoning restricted areas, and redder carpets running in multiple directions.

Stepping into the foyer, you’re a little thankful for Ravus’ scent for making it easier for you to track him down. When you’re starstruck by the decadence of pearl-lined banisters leading up to a floor elsewhere, you just have to scent out for a muted musk of wildflowers and earthy herbs to find Ravus awaiting you somewhere, monitoring your incredulity with the faintest tug to his lips. You just have to return to him, walk a few more meters, get distracted by a lavish oil painting depicting The Story of the Six, before Ravus’ scent beckons you to be by his side again. Rinse and repeat, all the way past the readily welcoming Concierge Committee and into the fanciest lift ride you’ve ever been in your whole entire life, one Niflheim couldn’t compare to. An acrylic painting of The Story of the Stars edged in gold and ruby commands your attention, hung as a centrepiece in the lift for all its occupants to admire; it is a faint reminder that while Niflheim once saw Lucis as a puny kingdom unworthy of an Astral-bestowed prosperity, they certainly couldn’t stow Lucis’ rich history.

Once it dings off, you follow Ravus from behind, carefully coming to a halt at a broad hallway accented by retro marbling. Standing before a double door situated between two vases of lilies are three figures of varying heights, like a stairway going down. From left to right, Ravus gestures at them as he bends to murmur into your ear. “Argentum. Aurum. Andronicus.”

“Ooh,” you nod in understanding, “like triple A batteries?”

The look Ravus gives you is one of silence as he straightens up.

You take it that he can’t crack your joke. “Y’know, AAA batteries?” you try again. “Because Argentum, Aurum, and Andronicus?”

In retrospect, Ravus could’ve killed you with his bare hands if it weren’t for an animated blond waving madly in the distance. The cheerful joy in his voice echoes throughout the waiting room. “Hi there, Highness!”

In today’s episode of I Shouldn’t Be Alive, you should be thanking your lucky stars yet again for that untimely rescue. Your superior wastes your joke by not laughing and merely stands in attention when the three stooges stroll over—well, the tallest blond is doing a small jog, a buxom blonde saunters like this is the next episode of Gralea’s Next Top Model, while the smallest woman is drowning under her hefty robes, dragging it all over the carpet. When they finally crowd around Ravus, your superior nods in counter-clockwise.

“Argentum. Aurum. Andronicus,” he repeats, his gaze lowering by fractions according to height. “We meet again.”

You take a moment to scan each face he mentioned.

Argentum, being the first guy introduced to you, is a wildly grinning blond sporting a sweeping updo resembling that of a chocobo’s…butt. It’s a cute butt, nonetheless. Butt—and there’s your puntastic side making an appearance—if there’s any guy who should sport a chocobo’s butt on his hair, it’s definitely Argentum because he makes it into a work of art. You find yourself instantly drawn to his fetching smile that sets you at ease; his hair and eyes are the golden sun setting on Galdin waters, and you like how he radiates sunshine with every inch of his existence. In slacks and a simple shirt, he shoulders a canvas camera bag like it’s an indispensable extension of his limbs, keeping a caring hand on the buckled flap.

The second blonde, Aurum, is a busty beauty whose hefty breasts demand release behind the constraints of her button-up. You kind of sympathise the buttons a little; they’re doing a great job manning the fort from exploding. That and she’s hot, smoking hot under her shirt and skirt combo sans jacket. She has the face of a country sweetheart who’s the pride and joy of a village, an Omega through and through. The high rise of her shirt couldn’t cover the rim of an Omegan collar in loud orange, not that you couldn’t scent it from her. She’s a potpourri of contradictions—like ripe tangerines and intoxicating gasoline, though you don’t know why.

The last A goes by Andronicus and you are instantly magnetised by how she openly showcases her bare neck with nary a collar on it. Unmarked. Another Omega, but one who openly disregards the law. Those openly disregarding the law only do so because they know they are above it. She is the image of crushed pomegranates seeping scarlet; only, you don’t know if it’s juices or blood—and that’s terrifying as all hells. While you are two parts intrigued by her courage and eight parts terrified at the whiff of metal in her scent, you avoid staring into her hollow eyes and returned her curiosity with your PR smile.

Decorated in a garb fashioned from stiff leathers, two tiers of heavy brocades flare past her frame like the wings of a crow when she walks up. You try not to flinch when she quietly breathes in your scent, praying to the Astrals that she won’t surface as tonight’s nightmare. “Good day,” she intones, a flat sound bordering utter apathy. As a fellow emotionally constipated human, she levels her unwavering gaze at her second fellow emotionally constipated friend. “It’s nice seeing you again, Ravus.”

“Nice to see you again, big guy,” Argentum dares to wink, finger gunning his way. “We didn’t see your car when we arrived so we were betting when you’d come.”

“An’ from the looks of it, I won the bet,” Aurum pipes up in thick accent with a certain twang in her lilt. “Dinner’s on you, Prompto. Thanks for arrivin’ fourty-three secs later, y’all.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Argentum—Prompto is all shrugs, and that’s the happiest guy right there if you’ve ever seen one. “Dinner with Cindy tonight, here I come! Thanks for coming late, you guys!”

Ravus, of course, seems to share a certain connection with Andronicus since he unanimously ignored the blond duo and says, “I see your butler has finally learnt to give you some freedom.”

“Oh my, I certainly never pegged you the type to be missing me badly. I’m flattered by your advances.”

You almost jump out of your skin at the sharp tang of a knife on your tongue when another Alpha saunters into view. It’s a sentiment echoed by Prompto who openly leapt inches above the ground, clutching his camera bag for his dear life, while Cindy whips around to catch a mess of white flanking Andronicus’ side. From the looks of it, you could tell he’s the source of the metallic tinge to her scent—from spending an eternity with one another. He bends to gift her a kiss on her hairline while, undisturbed by the blatant display of affection, Andronicus merely scratches her cheek.

“Unfortunately not,” she monotones, shrugging. “He’s my shadow.”

Ravus only narrows his eyes at the albino Alpha who’s come to play with his ruddy eyes slanting catlike, all dressed up in his white three-piece suit. Yet your superior says no further on the matter when Prompto smacks said butler in the forearm with a livid, “Dude! Quit that! You tryna give me a heart attack!?”

“A heart attack is a symbol of love, seeing that it is a heart attack,” he quips merrily, smiling a too-wide smile that never reached his eyes. “It’s nice seeing you again, Prompto, Miss Aurum, and,” he pauses, observing and quite openly scenting you, “Miss (y/n).”

You jaw would’ve dropped if you hadn’t locked it tight. ‘Holy shit, his eyesight’s crazy good if he could read my nametag this far.’ If Ravus is the textbook staple of a terrifyingly tall Alpha, Butler Man™ definitely embodies the terrifying part to a tee. You clear your throat to shake yourself out of shock and stride forward to offer Prompto, Cindy, Andronicus, and Butler Man™ a handshake each. “Senior Corporate Communications Executive, (y/n) at your service. Thank you for having me here today.”

“Cindy Aurum, Caelum Conglomerate’s Media Relations Exec,” she receives your shake with two quick ones, her beatific smile gracing glittering green eyes. Caelum Conglomerate (CC) sure is blessed to have such stunner in their circle. “Nice to meetcha, fellow Omega.”

“And I’m Prompto Argentum,” Prompto comes up with a bold grin. “CC’s best photographer working with Cindy right here, and six-time champ of Meteor Publishing’s Photographer of the Year. Nice to meet you too.”

You don’t know what Meteor Publishing is, but it sure sounds impressive since he looks like he had certainly wielded a camera as a weapon at some point of his life. Plus, six-time champion? That’s some mad skills right there. For a Beta, that is. Or is he an Alpha? You can’t tell, not when you can’t pick up a distinct scent from him. He’s all fuzzy like he’s got one of those scent-blocking patches on him how one uses a mosquito patch to ward those pesky bloodsuckers. Still, you contain yourself from letting your curiosity pique, eyes darting away when he seeks yours.

Ravus has a hand on his chin when he talks to Cindy. “Teulle couldn’t make it?”

The blonde droops visibly and shakes her head, twisting curls bobbing about. “Holly’s at Lestallum again, doin’ a piece on the plant. Word has it that they’re generatin’ enough power for the whole kingdom soon enough. She’s doin’ field work to check ‘er out.”

Ravus dignifies her statement with an appropriate, “Ah.”

And strangely, Cindy didn’t take it to heart, granting him one of her smashing smiles. She probably got used to this guy who’d either text a whole paragraph or give one word replies to her story. Her smashing smile, on the other hand, held adverse effects to Prompto. Blinded, you’d say, because he’s as gone as one could be at death. It’s cute how this guy probably has a crush on his colleague the size of the meteor—but then again, considering how gorgeous Cindy is, obvious complications in terms of rivals would prove to be Prompto’s biggest obstacle. No matter though, you find yourself rooting for him internally. Office romance can be such a fickle fling if it’s not done the right way; of course, you’re only basing this on the serial horrors depicted in NTG involving a beta colleague caught flirting with another acquaintance when he’d been intimately involved with another beta next door, and that’s another tragedy altogether.

Unfortunately, the terrifying Butler Man™ takes centre stage once more when he gestures Andronicus’ way. This time, his introduction comes with a genuine smile—almost like a proud father introducing his daughter, funnily enough. “This is Lady Andronicus, Lucian Royal Council’s Military Strategist and Lucis University’s Pro-Chancellor.”

Interconnecting chains dangling from her shoulder ended in rings on each middle finger, emanating a chilling sound when her hand flicks to stop him. “…Byron?”

Butler Man™, whose name is apparently Byron, tilts his head with excessive cuteness in the gesture. It’s eerie how he imitated a teenage anime girl right down to the starry eyes with such perfection. “Yes, milady?”

“…It’s Crown City Campus now,” she sighs, shoulders sagging. “C3, Byron, C3.”

“My sincerest apologies, it must’ve slipped my mind again,” he offers his apology, but oddly, he doesn’t sound sorry at all—almost as if it was done on purpose. You find it rather disturbing how he’s smiling too much to be normal as he dramatically murmurs, “Being old is taking a toll on me, it’s my age that’s catching up.”

“Can it,” Prompto stuffs his face in his hand, groaning at Byron’s melodrama and countering it with his own brand of melodrama. “You’re not the only thirty-something around here, you know. Ugh, I seriously need to get a life.”

“I feel old too,” Andronicus offers her half-hearted sympathy—or is it full sympathy? You can’t tell, not when her face doesn’t reveal an inch of her thoughts. It’s as if her butler had sucked out all sense of expression from her and made them his. “I wish we all have a New Game+ setting when we restart. Can you imagine how cool we’d be if we all had New Game+ options?”

Prompto seemingly understands her mysterious lingo, even if your brain is doing an Error 404 at her reference. “I know right?” he rubs his bearded chin, imitating an ancient scholar. “Or at least they’d let us transfer save data, that would’ve been neat. At least I can be OP when I start again. Can’t forget infinite money, we need that. And we get to carry over our items from our previous playthrough too!”

The buxom blonde giggles at their chatter, greatly amused with the turn in conversation. “Now, now,” Cindy placates the whining children, her hand falling on the generous curve of her hips, “why don’t we all sit down for some grub tonight? I’ll whip up somethin’ good to give that spirit some liftin’. Ain’t that be fun?”

One second ago, Prompto’s busy lamenting the unfair fate of the universe the Astrals gave him. Now he’s all but fist-pumping the air with a hoot, misery forgotten in the blink of an eye. “Aw yeah! Cindy’s home-cooked meals? Count me in!”

“Allow me to join the fray as the second chef,” Byron adds, gloved hands muting his sharp clap. “Let’s make it a date tonight on the 56th floor. Text me your list of ingredients, Miss Aurum, and I’ll buy them on my way out later.”

“S’well, thank you,” Cindy pokes him in the chest, her luscious curls bouncing when she tips her head aside. “I’ll pay ya back later with some good ol’ paw-paw styled hotpot.”

You have to admit, this is probably culture shock speaking for you.

You’d say NTG’s media department was a family on its own unlike what Niflheim fostered; it’s Aranea’s brand of family with her playing a parental role over her children: Those working under her. Any outsider trying to talk smack with one of her family members would get a stiletto plugging their ass since her ferocious protectiveness ensured nobody’s getting bullied by other departments. When someone needs to get a job done, everyone bands together to accomplish the goal. Alphas, Betas, Omegas all on overtimes, working past midnight to sync everything together to perfection. Drunk at 3.00 a.m. on caffeine and high off the lack of sleep, you can’t say it’s the same outside NTG when your schooling life from primary to university didn’t really hold the same sense of camaraderie unlike what Aranea built from a scratch.

Yet, back in Gralea, meetings like this often had a crushing connotation of no smiles, tight jaws, handshakes laced in meanings no matter how ‘informal’ they get. All official papers even if it’s a game of golf or two, high teas and candlelight dinner included. A contract dealt under the table with a fistful of cash, often the sort of transaction they’d prefer. Politicians are the upper crust of the society, never mingling with those beneath them. Getting into the high echelons of society is as easy as dialling up a distant uncle and his cables would net you the next duke faster than a flying dropship. Family, to them, is a glorified staircase whose only purpose is for one to step on in order to reach the next level life could offer. A life of jewels on throat, gems in hair, never the same Alexander McQueen autumn dress appearing twice in a season’s gala.

It’s been ten years since the signing of the treaty, and Lucis outgrew Niflheim’s oppression real quick, it shows in how they’re living their lives to the fullest now.

And Niflheim? Niflheim probably won’t change much, seeing how they’re dealing with things in tones different from their neighbour.

Seeing how these Lucians have built their own ecosystem of sorts, political figures and commoners chatting like long-time friends, leaves a pang in your heart at the memory of Aranea, Mr Biggs and Mr Wedge as well as the rest of them back in NTG. Their ever-evolving dynamics with one another remind you that you’re here now and there’s little complaining you could do that could change your situation. Mom’s not here, dad’s not here, Aranea’s not here—and the best that you have is your superior, whose crabbiness renders him perpetually constipated for all eternity. He’s no Aranea, that’s for sure, and getting along with him is so damnably hard.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t try again, right?

Scooting closer to Ravus, you give him little taps on the back of his hand. “Ravus, Ravus, Ravus,” you murmur, careful enough not to distract the quartet from their lively bantering. It is with a forced sigh that Ravus is obligated to acknowledge your pestering, leading him to lean downwards to catch your tiptoed whisper. “Are you sure I should be here?”

He angles his head to fit his mouth against the rim of your ear, hot breath laving your skin. While the tingling of your nerves almost made you lose your delicately tiptoed balance, you’re sure he doesn’t mean any of the contact, not when his voice hardens with the promise of a bite. A warningbite. “And why shouldn’t you?”

“Well…I dunno,” you mutter, a tad bit chagrined at your insecurity. You’re not here to make friends, you’re here to make money—or at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself, except friends make it easier for you to fill in the loneliness. Ravus is not a friend, yet neither is he a foe. “Kinda feeling out of place, I guess. Out of the loop. System error. Disconnected.”

For a moment, Ravus is silent. A long, contemplative silence. Not the one with the stink-eye he aims your way when you talk too much.

“You are a fool,” he cuts straight to the point, clearly lacking hostility despite his wording. From the corner of your eye, you catch a half-lidded gaze meeting yours in unerring concentration, and it’s starting to bloom weird bubbles in your stomach. “Everyone has a duty to be here, including you. Set aside those feelings; they are hardly any use in this situation. You will learn under my tutelage, and you’d do well to learn it quickly.” You know the promise of pain when you hear one, though Ravus ignores how wide-eyed you’ve gone. His voice only takes a quieter tone as he says, “Regrettably, Teulle isn’t here to chauffer Aurum and Argentum today. I imagine you’d get along with her fairly well if she were. It is unfortunate that she’s currently preoccupied with other matters Andronicus undoubtedly assigned her. It isn’t a request one could simply reject.”

It’s definitely in bad taste to ogle someone, but you can’t help it when Ravus mentions her name. Never mind the fact that she’s equally terrifying like her butler, but you’ve never seen anyone opposing the law like they are the lawless. For all her de rigeur, you find it hard to believe an Omega like her actually managed to hold a seat in the council. Gods know Niflheim would sooner immolate itself than introduce an Omega into its ranks. “She has that much power? What’s she got to do with C3 besides being the Pro-Chancellor anyway?”

When Ravus starts with, “Double doctorate in her twenties,” you launch into a fit of coughs because double doctorate? Who’s crazy enough to attempt that? In their twenties? But your superior doesn’t give you a chance to breathe when he continues, “She forced Lucis into engaging in repeated peace talks with Niflheim and eventually oversaw the Niflheimian-Lucian treaty signing, leading to Lucis’ added benefits. Now that the war has ended, she aims to make Insomnian technology accessible throughout Lucis to develop the outerskirts with Niflheim’s help. Teulle is currently looking into that, seeing how new technology is presently implemented in the power plant in Lestallum, eventually speeding up the process to power the rest of the kingdom. You can consider it as CC’s CSR aside from joint efforts for TAFFY.”

You’re sure you’re still reeling from her double doctorates in twenties, while you’re just a fledgling senior exec trying to fly under Ravus’ guidance. ‘Why are all of them so badass? Even that Argentum guy is some six-time photography champ when I can’t even take selfies without my hand shaking and blurring up the whole damn picture.’ At this point, you’re convinced the Lucian quartet over there are leagues above your level because you’re just some Omega from Gralea who’s trying to find your way in Insomnia.

If you thought Byron had sharp eyes, it is news to you that butlers these days come equipped with even sharper hearing. He brings his hands together in a single clap to draw attention, the plastic smile back on his face like it never left, always ready to educate the unsuspecting idiot: You. “Milady had been an esteemed graduate of Lucis University—“

Prompto playfully elbows him in the side. “Crown City Campus, big guy.”

“He’s doing it on purpose,” Andronicus sighs yet again, as if tortured by her butler’s existence.

Prompto snaps his fingers. “I totally knew that.”

“—and having expressed her interest in giving back to an institution she dearly loved, she took up the post as Pro-Chancellor,” Byron goes on without missing a beat, clearly more than pleased to talk at length about his retainer. Though his smile is especially vindictive when he catches Ravus’ gaze. “Well, if I may be so bold in expressing myself, she is doing the Chancellor’s job as well, seeing how he’s d—.”

You are already holding your hand to your heart to steady yourself at the sound. ‘Dead?’

“—disappeared,” Byron finishes.

“…oh.” Well, that was anticlimactic. You don’t know if you’re sagging in relief or disappointment without the added tragedy. Then you do a double-take when you realise humans don’t do disappearing acts out of nowhere, especially the Chancellor. Here’s to hoping you don’t step out of an imaginary line somewhere for your question. “Wait, what do you mean disappeared?”

It is at this point of your life, you realise two things are amiss with the situation once it’s brought to light.

Exhibits A, Prompto Argentum and Cindy Aurum, are both displaying open signs of reluctance at the subject. It’s not like how TV shows do a dramatic zoom into the obvious body language; this is something subtler with how Prompto’s grin twitches in the corner and he struggles with maintaining it. Cindy is smarter when she tries a shrug to diffuse the tension, but you know there’s too much light in her eyes. The light of knowledge. Which probably means she knows something about it but it’s going to take more than wheedling to make her spill the 411.

Exhibit B, on the other hand, is Andronicus. She just takes out her phone from the intricate trappings of her raiment and appears to be texting someone. You don’t really know what to make of it because she’s confusing as heck. She could be pretending to text someone just to get out of answering this, or she really doesn’t care, or she’s secretly peeved at said Chancellor seeing how she’s doing all the job instead so her phone is an elaborate distraction. Whatever it is, she’s not off the hook yet, not when you find her nonchalance guilty of suspicion too.

But what you failed to take into account is Exhibit C: Ravus Nox Fleuret.

At the mention of the Chancellor, followed by Byron’s knowing glance, Ravus turns to you with the look of a man who has meditated under the waterfall for a millennia and thus, knows everything the Astrals touched, including explicit government secrets. And he’s not afraid to share his tea with you.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum,” he starts, something of contempt crossing his smirk, arms crossed over his chest in the way only haughty princes could pull off. “The Crown Prince of Lucis is the Chancellor of Crown City Campus and soon-to-be 114th King of Lucis.” His smirk turns positively savage with his words. “A chancellor who excels in cowardice, if I must say.”

Now your hand is already flying to your heart again with a scandalised gasp. ‘Holy shit. This guy’s crazy for saying that right in the middle of the royal turf. What if they catch him and throw him in the dungeon for lèse-majesté like in Niflheim?’ Then you catch yourself frowning at your thought. ‘Wait, we’re in Lucis.’ Then you do another mental re-examination at your deepening frown. ‘Ravus is Prince of Tenebrae so I guess he has the license to shit-talk the Prince of Lucis anytime he wants?’

That makes sense, right?

Right.

As you’re about to sip on some hot royal tea served by none other than your superior, the double doors creak open to suspend the gossip session. An aging face peers from the gap, the face of a manservant of the Citadel who’s presumably in charge of the meeting. Everyone drops into a professional stance as the man folds at the waist in a deep bow. For such a frail body, his voice booms imposingly with his announcement.

“Everyone, thank you for waiting. His Majesty King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII awaits.”

Tiny Andronicus: Ravus and Byron were dissing you again. Noctis: six Noctis: what’d they say? Tiny Andronicus: There was a newbie with Ravus today who didn’t know what was going on and asked questions. Byron and Ravus were more than happy to supply the answers. That’s the gist of it. Noctis: tell byron to mind his own business Noctis: i’ve got enough to handle on my own Tiny Andronicus: I know. I’ll keep covering for you since there’s not much to do anyway. Feel better soon. By the way, Byron and Cindy are going to throw a little get-together tonight at my place. Will you come? Noctis: sure Noctis: count iggy in too Tiny Andronicus: Great, see you tonight.

Informal meeting, your ass.

While it was indeed an informal meeting with the king minus standard fanfare of all pomp and circumstance, a part of you secretly wondered if you could nail Ravus in the shin for giving you a minor heart attack. (You’re a short Omega anyway, close enough to kick him where the sun doesn’t shine if you needed to.) The Alpha hadn’t a modicum of common sense to inform you that you were going into a meeting with the King of Lucis, out of all people! Sure, you’ve been in meetings with Emperor Iedolas and his cronies but Aranea had ensured everyone in her team was well-informed of the proceedings and rehearsed major points nights before the main event took place. With Ravus? No, it was a trial by fire through and through. As a Techie, you’re a veteran in surviving spontaneous combustions whenever your superior attempts reckless shit—Gods know how many times Aranea bit off more than she could chew and had to overwork the team on double time, no weekends off. While Ravus certainly hasn’t introduced anything like that (yet), you’re just counting the days before he attempts—or hauls you by the collar and throws you into the burning pits of hell with him.

But you digressed, really.

A fruitful meeting is a fruitful meeting and you’re thankful you didn’t have to do much other than to upload major points of the discussion into your Moogle Drive for further reviewing. Your superior did most of the work in the meeting and all you had to do was just to stare at his majestic profile as he manhandled the ball into his court. Ravus is truly a capable man who understood the intricacies of a two-way communication between the nations—especially since he’s neither Niflheimian nor Lucian; he’s from Tenebrae and he has absolutely nothing to do with this. Or so you think, because gossip magazines wouldn’t dig deeper into his political ties when they’re all comparing math answers on his dick size. With everything laid out on the table, Ravus concluded the meeting with a handshake and indulged in private discussions with King Regis afterwards. Now that you’re thinking about it, Cindy, Prompto, and Andronicus—or the AAA Battery Trio—were all chummy with the king too.

‘Well, I don’t know if all kings are like that but it’s weird seeing a king that friendly,’ you muse, seeing how Emperor Iedolas barely spared a glance at anyone unrelated to royalty or nobility. It was refreshing to have a king addressing the AAA Battery Trio like they were his children, a genuine interest in his voice when he touches on matters of their wellbeing and work. You stood quite some distance away to let them enjoy their privacy, though snatches of their conversations did drift your way.

Specifically, on the Prince of Lucis.

On your way out of Sagefire, you readjust your paper bag securely to make way for your phone. On screen, Moogled pictures of a brooding prince in varying portraits and tabloids are out. Well, you had been Moogling the mysterious prince after the cryptic conversation took place because curiosity is a damnably nosy cat who doesn’t stop sniffing everything up. Besides, what kind of prince slash chancellor gets spirited away out of nowhere? Something doesn’t add up, especially when Byron and Ravus seem to hold a vendetta against said prince while the AAA Battery Trio are steadfast in their refusal to talk about the matter. It’s up to you to flip every stone and leave no treks unexamined—

—unless this is some Beauty and the Behemoth thing where the prince was cursed into a hairy behemoth walking on his hind legs, then yeah, you could understand why he ‘disappeared’, but Moogle Results say otherwise.

Pictures of the Crown Prince are pretty, for starters, no behemoth beast in sight. He’s a block of ice carved by Shiva’s own hands, a glacial beauty bearing cold eyes that betray nothing of his thoughts. With meticulously waxed hair gently spiked in layers, wispy bangs veiling his face, he’s a definitely a looker. (Though, some part of you had to confess that he seemed like an edgy teen who wears all black and listens to punk metal—but you abstained yourself from outwardly remarking so because. Lèse-majesté. Enough said.) What really snagged your interest was the timestamp on each picture post.

All of them were dated M.E. 756 and below.

A frown tugs your brows and you tap on the next picture. And the next one. And the next one. Even with a badly photoshopped picture of the prince’s head pasted on a swimsuit model’s body, basking nude on some beach. Everything was M.E. 756 backwards.

You stop in your tracks, a little lost in thought. ‘How about that. Why aren’t there pics of this guy anymore? It’s 766 now, and I’m still broke like I was ten years ago, so where’d this guy go? Botched plastic surgery accident? Shiva knows.’ Your dissatisfaction leads you to scroll through Moogle Pictures a wee bit harder than before, intent to prove yourself wrong, but damn you were too good until you couldn’t disprove your own conjecture. Working in NT really does things to your head.

“Hey.”

A gruff greeting almost became the beginning of an accident involving your phone hitting the pavement but you managed to snatch it before your first month’s salary becomes the fodder for a new replacement. You snap upright to meet a seated man—Alpha—on a ledge, doing something with his hand. A wave. Right, a wave, an awkward wave. Wearing tired sweatpants that’s begging for an early retirement, in a shirt with more wrinkles than a grandma, kind eyes seek yours. You immediately recognise them for the way they drown you in the sea, blotting out all air from your lungs.

‘It’s the homeless Alpha from yesterday!’

You would’ve cheerily bounced up to him if it weren’t for the fact that he’s got someone else in his company. Another Alpha. Scratch all thoughts of Sir Izunia and Ravus being flagpoles—this guy is the real deal. Titan must’ve had a hand in this guy’s creation because he’s all corded muscles under a fitting tee, bulging biceps fiercely inked in wings. His scent quashes you into a pulp under control, a potent perfume of a campsite fire in a mossy forest. You’ve met people like him before, Alphas whose overwhelming confidence easily sedated Betas and subdued Omegas alike. And you especially hate it when his dominance pulls an involuntary whine from your throat, rumbling under your collar. It’s a smaller cry of submission, curling backwards, trying to make yourself smaller, all Omegan instincts hardwired into your essence.

Beer brown pupils are blown wide at the sound as nostrils flare to catch a whiff of your petrified scent. He holds out a hand, big enough to wrap one side of your ribcage to render you hopeless if he wants. “Easy, didn’t mean to scare ya, cutie,” he coaxes, a reassuring purr loitering around the edges of his words. Standing up, he easily dwarves the homeless Alpha like it’s no competition, ushering you in place. “C’mere, take my seat.”

When a broad hand settles between your shoulder blades with the gentleness unbecoming of an Alpha, guiding you to take his place, you bite out a soft, “Thank you,” as you sink gratefully into his experienced touch.

Titan Alpha chuckles, a low, husky sound that stirs an unpleasant feeling right in your belly with how it’s done. He steps back to give you some space, palms up in surrender, even if bright eyes tell you he enjoyed every last second of it. “Real sorry about that, cutie, didn’t mean anything by it,” he drawls, each syllable drawn out in meaning. When the homeless man pointedly clears his throat, he throws his hands up and walks off with nary a wave. “Don’t wanna interrupt anything so I’ll get going. See ya, Noct.”

You watch his retreating back until he disappears around the corner, withholding your sigh of relief.

Shitty omega instincts. Yep, you hate it when your dumb Omega ass resorts back to primitive instincts but that’s what it is. Whining, keening—all of that and more, especially when an Omega goes into heat. And that’s when all hell breaks loose. Yours isn’t due for at least three more weeks, so that’s a relief at least. It’s not every day you get spooked out by Alphas like him since you pride yourself on holding your chin up high when faced with their species, but that guy was something. A good something or a bad something, at this point of your life, you don’t know and you’re very sure you don’t want to know anytime soon. Not when he has you tamed terrified from the start. Setting down your paper bag and stowing your phone, the homeless Alpha is the first one to greet you out of your stupor.

“Forgive him, sometimes he can get – ah, a bit intense,” he begins, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. Straggly hair dangles over his face, almost obscuring a wistful half-smile from view. “But he’s not a bad guy, trust me.”

With a shake of your head, you answer his questioning look. “It’s okay, it wasn’t his fault.” As much as Titan Alpha’s existence spooked you with his overwhelming presence, you’re not about to let that ruin whatever you’ve shabbily established with this homeless man. You try on a smile instead, pushing all thoughts of Titan Alpha to the back of your head. “So, Noct huh? Nice to meet you.”

If this were a comedy, this is the part where a freeze frame comes in with a record scratch. For a moment, ‘Noct’ looks like he’s going to turn into one of those marble statues with how he froze. Did you accidentally cross the line somewhere with your thoughtless question? You really have a knack for putting a gun to someone’s throat, don’t you? But a second later, he seemingly thaws out of the odd little chin-rubbing action he’s doing, fingers playing together instead. “Y-yeah. My name’s—uh, Noctgar.”

Your head cocks aside. “Noctgar?” Something’s starting to click. Not that knock-knock joke from Noct, but something else. What was it again? Oh, right. “A namesake like Prince Noctis?”

If possible, Noctgar blanches like he’s been bleached. His knees are bouncing as he peers upwards, trying to look you in the eye right where he’s slouched. “Yeah…namesake. My parents were huge fans of the royal family.” He stops, a corner of his lips twitching at your bewilderment, and turns his gaze to the cracked pavement, an uncertain haze crossing his face. “I’m just some guy now.”

Oh shit.

If you had been holding a metaphorical gun to his throat just now, this was akin to shoving said metaphorical gun into his mouth.

Try as you might, you can’t hide your grimace. ‘Way to go.’ Your question must’ve stirred memories he’d rather bury—and there you went, fingers digging into his scars. Memories of, oh, you don’t know, maybe his parents for starters. Their passing, perhaps? Or a falling out that led them to throwing him out? Leading to him being ‘just some guy’ now? You don’t know all about it but what you do know is this: You need to fix it up in the way only an esteemed senior of NT could do.

You imitate his posture, all slouches and elbows resting on knees. Mirroring his stance is a good way to let your body talk to him in ways a language can’t. You catch his unmasked surprise when you drop to his level. “Yeah, I get what you mean. Back in Gralea, we had people who were fanatics of Emperor Iedolas too,” you offer unblinkingly, letting him stare at you all he wants. “They started naming their kids Eyedolas, Solas, Nidolas, all sorts of stuffs just to get that Iedolas vibe in their names. It was a really weird trend, growing up with half the boys in my class having names ending in ‘olas’ all the time.”

Slack-jawed, the Alpha takes a moment to find his voice. “You…Niff?” Then he abruptly breaks the eye contact, chagrined at the slip of the slur, apologetically rubbing the back of his nape. “…sorry, I mean Niflheimian.”

You get that, really. War may have ended ten years ago, but it’s like what Ravus said: Public sentiments are still in the negatives. Nobody’s expecting everything to go fine and dandy like the war never happened—even the cabbie from the airport called you a Niff, but the slur doesn’t really bug you that much when you understand it takes time to work these kinks out. You brush it aside in favour of chirping, “Yep, came from Gralea! Oh wait, I didn’t get to introduce my name, sorry I’m such a klutz,” you laugh softly, holding out your hand, “I’m (y/n), nice to meet you, Mr Noctgar.”

“Just Noctgar is fine,” he replies, though he evidently falters when it comes to receiving your handshake. His hesitance makes you want to pull back in case he has an aversion to physical contact, but the moment you withdrew, he quickly darted to catch your retreating hand in a tight grip. You kind wanted to laugh a little at how he’s floundering for a social cue to tell him if it’s one shake or two, a hand over yours, or just keep on shaking until someone stops, so you allow him the novelty of five shakes as you bite on your bottom lip to stop yourself from smiling too wide at how he’s ducking his head, messy bangs curtaining uncertain eyes. He’s the first one to soften out the shakes after the eighth try, clearing his throat and scratching his scruff instead. “What brought you to Insomnia?”

Fishing up your white lanyard for him to scrutinise, you point at the serif initials imprinted on your tag. “I work with Niflheim Technologies, see? They did a reshuffling recently and threw me all the way here from Niflheim. Some of my colleagues were super lucky bastards and they got Altissia.” You can’t help scowling at the thought of crystalline waters lapping on the edges of whitewashed banks, gondola rides and honeyed sunsets and romantic roses for every evening. “And then some ended up in Tenebrae too—including my best friend.”

You hadn’t intended to come off as bitter about it, but something must’ve showed either on your face or in your voice or both. Noctgar’s lips twitch at your admission and he tips backwards until he rests against the wall, to which you follow suit. Insomnia’s skies are a watery reflection in his eyes when he says, “…I’m sorry to hear that, I know how important friends can be.” Again, a doleful Alpha who’s thinking of distant thoughts your hands can’t reach. Your gaze lingers on the wrinkles rimming thick lashes as they flutter once, twice, before turning to you. “You must be lonely here.”

As expected, his introspection sees past your front. You knew it those eyes weren’t just looking when he looks at you. You are machinery to him: He examines you, disassembles your parts for further comprehension, and puts you together again once he achieves understanding. You could only attempt a self-deprecating simper when you know you’re practically transparent to him now. “Kind of? I guess. I couldn’t even make friends with anyone yet, not even my superior. He’s the Prince of Tenebrae, that guy who’s the famous duo of the Nox Fleuret siblings.”

Eyes are definitely the windows to one’s soul. But it seems like you have a long way to go if you wish to understand how his eyes are smiling when his lips are not. “Him, huh? Is it fun working under him?”

“Fun? Hardly.” You snort. “Talking to him feels like taking a walk through Ghorovas Rift! Because that guy never smiles.” You stop, if only to amend your statement lest it becomes a hyperbole aimed to diss your superior. “Well, I don’t know if it’s never, but it’s been two days and I haven’t seen his facial muscles move other than to scowl at me. I feel really unappreciated, y’know.”

It’s a good thing Noctgar doesn’t judge you for it. His smile is a comfort you’d feel if you have one of those feel-good foods, and it’s exactly what he does to you. “Sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“He’s a bit scary and strict too,” you stifle your laughter, just because Noctgar’s pain in the ass statement is basically Ravus condensed into four words. “But I like that he’s willing to share his knowledge with me because as much as I’m a senior exec now, I still don’t know much about NTI and how it works. So he taught me stuffs—like this morning, he took me to the Citadel for NTI’s CSR.” You momentarily stop to take in how Noctgar seems genuinely interested in your story, then continuing to list off your fingers. “Over there, I met some really cool people like Miss Aurum who apparently runs a mechanic shop with her grandpa outside Insomnia,” you say as he nods along, “Mr Argentum who’s apparently a really great photographer until he’s the six-time champ of Meteor Publishing,” here, you pause when Noctgar chuckles to himself, “and the last one is Lady Andronicus. She was really badass like—who actually has double doctorates, stopped the war, and is currently rebuilding Lucis anyway, all while being an Omega? That’s major crazy, right?” Your statement makes him hum his agreement, letting you merrily jog along your little adventure today. “And then we met the king too! His Royal Majesty King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII. He’s this Alpha of all Alphas and you could totally tell when he talks because it gives me the shivers,” you add, just when you catch the quality of his expression giving way to something else, dropping on the edges. Was it because you were starting to turn into Paragraph Guy Ravus who talks without stopping? Abashed, you try to rein it in a little because nobody likes a chatterbox who talks all about herself. “Oops, sorry…sometimes I talk too much. Just stop me when I do.”

But Noctgar, you learn, is an all-around nice Alpha whose kind smile and thoughtful words give you little flutters in your nerves. “Not at all,” he shakes his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “it’s fun hearing you talk like this.”

Before you realise it, you’re already fidgeting under his gaze, lips half-twisting in embarrassment. “…Thanks for listening to my rambling.” Because it is what it is, a genuine gratitude for someone whose presence feels like coming home after a hard day’s work. He’s a dear Alpha who doesn’t reek of pride and machismo, he’s just a simple man smelling of clean laundry and tattered pages of old books, sitting right here with you. You sincerely hope this isn’t your desperation in finding a friend talking for you, but you’re already thinking of spending tomorrow’s lunchtime together with him again. And, speaking of lunchtime, there’s your paper bag from Sagefire. Crap, as much as you’d love to spend two more hours talking to Noctgar, the bleak reality remains that Ravus awaits you in NT after lunch for more work.

You swallow your reluctance, reaching for your lunch. Packets of buns and sweetmeats topple as you rummage its depths, showcasing everything you bought in your satanic gluttony. “C’mon, let’s eat something together. I accidentally bought too much again and this is kinda my lunch time so I gotta eat something before I get back to work.”

“No, really, you shouldn’t—“ Noctgar jerks back, waving off your offering at your offering of a tuna mayo rice ball. “Please, I’m fine—“

“No, seriously, please,” you insist, allocating two more packets of salted egg croissant and raspberry danish in case he wants variety. “Help me out with finishing my food?” Again, it’s an expired excuse from yesterday, but you’ve made sure to stick your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout just to net extra points in sympathy. “Please?”

So maybe a part of you should feel bad for roping him into it, but Noctgar’s laugh takes you by surprise.

It’s a deep sound with undertones of a boyish delight that he never grew out of, nothing like the roaring laughter of some Alphas out there, or the sultry chuckles they attempt in their pursuit of potential mates. A hearty, full laughter like a crack of morning sunlight through a window, a sound that leaves you warm all over your skin. And it’s probably the balmy Insomnian heat getting to you, for the flush carpeting your cheeks is an infection reaching your ears. You’re turning your face away when he tips his head back, allowing you a clear view of hooded eyes trying to hold your scampering gaze. He reaches out to bring up a packet of rice ball, his indulgent smile turning lopsided. “Well…thank you for this. I appreciate it. In turn, allow me to be your friend.”

Wait, what? You’re the one who’s jerking back now, waving him off the same way he did before. “No, really, you don’t have to—“

“It’s not sympathy, I assure you,” he cuts you off, thick fingers already pinching the riceball’s flimsy packaging. Seaweed on white rice, it’s a simple meal, but he eyes it with bittersweet fondness. And that very same fondness is turned to you once more. “I’ll be your friend…if you want me to.”

Geez, the Insomnian sunlight really is hot; it’s getting stifling under your collar. Your face burns with the full heat of it, letting out a quiet, “...Thanks, Mr Noctgar. Seriously, thanks.”

Noctgar is a messy eater, you realise. Having worn out the initial modesty of declining food, he scarfs down the rice ball in three bites, bits of rice sticking on his untrimmed beard. He must be hungrier than you thought, licking off salt from his fingertips once the deed is done. A sidelong glance has his lips quirking up in the corners, reaching out for the croissant. “I take that back. We can’t be friends.”

—well, that was short-lived. And here you thought Gralea’s political friendships were the shortest. Your forage into your milk bun comes to an indignant halt. “What—why!?”

“Not until you agree to stop calling me Mr Noctgar,” he chides with a twinkle in his mischievous eyes, leading you to realise how foolish your outburst had been. If your cheeks had been burning, right now you’re scalded by your stupidity—a stupidity that Noctgar enjoys, chuckling at your mortification. “Just Noctgar is fine, please. Let’s drop all formalities as friends.”

There are many things you learnt about your friend, Mr Noctgar, today.

For starters, he’s named after the Prince of Lucis, some guy who ‘disappeared’ from public eye and the all-watchful internet. Talking about his parents is a huge no-no because it makes him sad and seeing him sad makes you feel like you just kicked a puppy. He’s also an Alpha who can’t read social cues and doesn’t know how many handshakes is good enough before it turns awkward. Despite his apparent awkwardness, he’s a great listener since he doesn’t even stop you when you rambled an entire paragraph like Ravus did. Thoughtful words belie a ferocious hunger though—he could chow down a rice ball like a vacuum cleaner inhaling dust. But when he smiles, it feels like the Astrals parted the heavens to make his face light up in ways you thought impossible.

You’re starting to like your new friend already.

Absently swinging your legs, you peel off the sticky plastic and mumble your words around a mouthful of goodness.

“Geez, way to give me a heart attack…Noctgar.”

“That was a commendable portrayal of a homeless man, Noct.”

“Specs, I really wasn’t trying to.”

“Truly?”

“Yeah, your rice balls were really good. Can I get more?”

“…I can’t believe you. Come along then, off to Sagefire we go.”

NOTES:

Okay so the notes are going to get fairly long, so bear with me!

1) There is an extension that automatically converts all (y/n) tags into a name of your liking for your reading enjoyment! You can grab it here and let it do its magic for all your name-replacing-and-reading needs.

2) In the previous chapter, a reader pointed out that it’d help knowing some terms, which is a good point! So here’s some brief explanation for the stuffs thing going on in here (source included for the second one):

Lèse-majesté: The crime of violating majesty, an offence against the dignity of a reigning sovereign or against a state.

Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR): Today's consumers are looking for more than just high-quality products and services when they make a purchase. They're prioritizing corporate social responsibility (CSR), and holding corporations accountable for effecting social change with their business beliefs, practices and profits.

A 2017 study by Cone Communications found that more than 60 percent of Americans hope businesses will drive social and environmental change in the absence of government regulation. 87 percent would purchase a product because a company supported an issue they care about. A whopping 76 percent will refuse to buy from a company if they learn it supports an issue contrary to their own beliefs.

Companies practice CSR through some of these involvements: Environmental efforts: Businesses regardless of size have a large carbon footprint. Any steps they can take to reduce those footprints are considered both good for the company and society as a whole. Philanthropy: Businesses can also practice social responsibility by donating money, products or services to social causes. Larger companies tend to have a lot of resources that can benefit charities and local community programs. Ethical labor practices: By treating employees fairly and ethically, companies can also demonstrate their corporate social responsibility. Volunteering: Attending volunteer events says a lot about a company's sincerity. By doing good deeds without expecting anything in return, companies are able to express their concern for specific issues and support for certain organizations.

3) On another note, this chapter contained an introduction to the characters of Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired, starring your reader character (y/n) Andronicus and Noctis. You can follow the strange journey of reader and Noctis as their slow-burn romance go down the Omen route right here! But you don’t really have to understand or read LPC to enjoy this fic; it’s just me borrowing the characters to establish an ideal Insomnia and Lucis if they didn’t go all WAR WAR WAR with Niflheim because LPC is pre-Kingsglaive and pre-FFXV and pre-Omen, while this fic is post-FFXV in an alternate universe. This fic only focuses entirely on your adventures with homeless (????) alpha Noctgar and the mysterious (????) disappearance of the Prince of Lucis so it’s 120% unrelated to LPC. They’re also going to be playing a side role so no worries, your reader character in LPC isn’t going to outshine your reader character in Mr Noctgar :D (This is like a reader + reader crossover for some reasons) And those who are currently reading LPC would probably get a kick out of this fic

4) I had an interesting discussion on Tumblr sometime ago about the reader’s height in this fic. When I did my little survey with my readers before, I found out that they’re mostly around the 150 cm height circle. If you're not short, don't worry, just enjoy the fic as it is because it's just a fun fic of office woes and misunderstandings! Using that as a base for comparison (if you’re around that height too), you can see how you match up against Gladio and Ardyn:

150 cm vs Gladio 150 cm vs Ardyn

You could also input your own height to see how you compare with the boys! I mean, size kink and size difference tags are there for coughcough, winkwonk.

5) Thanks for the incredible support for this fic, all the comments and likes! ❤ Next chapter contains even more tragedy and drama and more of our favourite men Noctis Noctgar and Ravus! Stay tuned for more ❤

THE TRAGEDY CONTINUES: Fingers skating across the keys stop. Your innocent concern is a forgery most Omegas have mastered; a species designed to captivate and fascinate those around them, unhesitant to delve their fingers into the stickiest of pies, only to draw them back, licking and sucking off cherry-reddened digits one by one. Viciously coy to those they want to enrapture, cunningly demure to those they want to seduce, Omegas are disgusting creatures willingly spreading their legs for any and all Alphas to conquer. Once they’ve conquered the body, they will conquer the world. Such is the reality Ravus is acquainted with, considering the multitude of Omegas who have crossed his path and tried to make him theirs.

#noctis x reader #noctis/reader #Noctis Lucis Caelum #ffxv #final fantasy xv #final fantasy xv fanfic #mr noctgar #man #this fic is such a joy to write #it's fun to write all the misunderstandings they'll eventually get into #and that's the moment where the drama grows!#thanks for all the support for this fic!

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