[fic] Star-crossed
Title: Star-crossed
Author: candeefloss
Series: Final Fantasy Versus XIII
Pairing: Noctis/Stella
Rating: G
Type: One shot.
Summary: She's so bright and elegant and almost casual in the way she talks to him. He, on the other hand, feels like he misplaced his voice downstairs.
Notes: Giftfic for winged-requiem's birthday/Christmas! Surpriseee. :D Basically... It's the scene we've all seen shots of by now, but I've thrown a lot of stuff in and tweaked it for more character interaction. I have no idea if I've done either of them justice, since there's barely anything to work off of, but I hope you like it anyway. :) Happy birthday, and merry Christmas, bb.
"These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss, consume."
- William Shakespeare
“That was a moving speech. I'm sure your father would be proud, were he here now.”
Noctis nods stiffly. He's talking to a round-faced man whose name he's already forgotten - some important governor from a neighbouring country? - who has been glowing at him for the past fifteen minutes. In more than one sense of the word. The man produces a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit to dab at his face, glistening from the heat. Small wonder, as the hall is heaving party guests, various important officials and representatives. The stifling atmosphere is not at all dissipated by the air conditioning of the hundred-storey luxury building. Noctis' own tie feels chokingly tight. He shifts; he's been on his feet all evening and the majority of the day, and it's starting to hit home.
“And one so young, too,” the man continues, oblivious to his discomfort. “To have all this responsibility thrust on you at such a young age, I'd imagine it must be difficult. Yet thus far you've proven yourself to handle challenges most gracefully.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, you're quite devoted to your kingdom. You may make a better ruler than your father yet.” The man pauses, as if choosing his next words carefully, holding them up to the light for inspection. (Noctis, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to glance at his wristwatch.) He seems almost nervous, but excited, too. He can't contain the question, and blurts, “Now, with the war over, there's still the matter of the crystal. The last crystal. Have you considered the implications of that? I, along with the rest of us, wonder what you--”
Noctis clears his throat. The man freezes.
“If I may, I'd like to be excused.”
“Ah... by all means!” There is clear disappointment on his face, barely masked when he bows low. “It's been a pleasure talking to you, Your Highness.”
“The same to you,” Noctis lies through his teeth. He slips away, around a group of chatting women in glittering cocktail dresses, by a waiter balancing a tray full of empty glasses, all the while pretending not to hear yet another person calling across to him, trying to initiate another conversation, which will end in that same way, as it has all evening. There are too many people, and it's loud, and the music playing - some classical symphony by some long-ago Tenebrae composer - has long stopped sounding pleasant.
A side door offers escape. He doesn't particularly care where it leads, only that it goes out. It clicks behind him, immediately shutting out the heat and sound. The silence rings in his ears.
He stands there for a moment, relaxing against the door. It's cool and dark and he has to wait for his eyes to adjust. He loosens his tie and pulls it off without as much as untying it properly, just wanting the thing off, and pockets it. Ahead of him there are stairs, and more silence, so he follows them up. The only sound is the rhythm of shoes against steps.
Before he's even reached the top, he sees her: a ghost, he wonders, all bright-white and shining pale, stark against the darkness of the room. She's by the windows, back to him, white dress, honey blonde hair, slim pale arms clasped in front of her. He pauses at the top step, surprised anyone is here at all. Before he can think to ask why, she turns around.
That first impression is one of a honey-sweet smile; he knows then she can't be a ghost. No phantom has a smile like that, one that lights up her eyes. She walks over to him, and he's rooted to the spot. “Prince Noctis,” she says, but does not bow. She half-laughs, nods her head to the stairs below. “Getting a breath of air, too?”
Dark cobalt eyes watch him. It takes him fractionally longer than normal to process there was a question.
Now there is just him, and this girl.
No. Young woman, perhaps. She's about the same age as him, he realises. He manages a smile in reply, but feels more self-conscious than during any speeches he's delivered. He looks away from her, at anywhere but her, briefly giving the room a once-over.
An elaborate chandelier illuminates what is an equally elaborate lounge, but it is still dark, darker than the rest of the building. There are black leather chairs in one corner. On one side of the room is the floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a skyline view of the city. Bleak clouds hang overhead, threatening rain, blotting out the sky in heavy darkness. Glowing skyscrapers rise up to meet them. This has to be one of the highest floors of the building, for a view such as this. It dwarfs even the highest office buildings beneath. Then, leaping out at them from the other side of the room, is a window into an aquarium. The dark and black is replaced by vibrant blue and darting rainbow splashes of fish. Noctis notices little of interest, however. He sees sights like this every day, until even the most elaborate displays of wealth rarely impress him -- if ever they did.
What does catch his eye is what the girl had been looking at. A portrait of the Goddess of Death, the frame held upright possessively by a skeletal, hooded figure. She notices him looking, and walks back over to the dark ornament. He wonders if that is the end of the brief conversation, because silence descends.
“I saw your speech earlier.”
She's looking out at the night sky, now. He decides, for politeness's sake, to move back to her side instead of talking to her back, but he can't think of anything to say in reply. She's so bright and elegant and almost casual in the way she talks to him. He, on the other hand, feels like he misplaced his voice downstairs.
“I'm glad the war's over,” she casts a glance sidelong at him. They're reflected in the window, and he watches her reflection by his side. He suspects where the conversation is headed, like before, but then: “I wish people didn't fight.”
Noctis looks at her. She's earnest, and serious. She looks back at him and his gaze drops away.
“That's naïve,” he manages, finally talking, trying to force down his rising nerves. In the window she frowns, clasps her hands behind her back. War is familiar ground, something he knows, has experienced, can talk about. “Often, people have no choice but to fight. Even so, sometimes I wish the same as you.”
“See,” she smiles up at him. Her face is so expressive, altering at the slightest change in mood; a quirk of the lips, slant of the eyebrows. Now she's bright again, so bright and stark white against everything else, and he decides she's prettier that way. She adds, “The world would be a far better place if more people thought like us, naïve or not.”
“Perhaps.” Her way of thinking is almost foolish in how simple it is, and he half suspects she's trying to trip him up into saying the wrong thing. Maybe she's just sheltered. He shifts, feeling uncomfortable again. “Ah...”
She looks away from the skyline enquiringly. “Yes?”
“I don't know your name.”
“Oh, my apologies. I'm Stella.” She gives a little bow of her head. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Prince Noctis.”
He shakes his head. “Just Noct is fine.” Formality is like a formidable, towering wall between them, like the choking party below. He has no desire to scale that wall, so he knocks it down altogether.
“Is that what your friends call you?” She seems teasing, but corrects herself. “I'm sorry, you don't have to answer.”
“It's fine. Yes, they do.” He paces the length of the room, pretending to be interested in buildings below. Cars are pinpricks of light, briefly illumined by street lamps as they pass beneath. Then they turn a corner and vanish. The click of heels follow after him, and he can see her, Stella, mirrored behind him again, hands still clasped behind her back.
“Were those your friends downstairs?” It's an innocent question, but she's sharp. He stops pacing.
“...One is my chauffeur.” He turns, and looks back at her. “The other two are bodyguards.”
It's true, in a sense. Not that he needs bodyguards, he reasons, but she doesn't need to know so much. She seems to mull it over, puzzled.
“It's late,” he says. “I should be going.”
Her eyes are still questioning. She wants to talk more, he can tell, but she says, “I'm sorry for keeping you. I should be going, too. I'll come with you.” She smiles briefly, leads the way back to the stairs. “If you like, you can visit Tenebrae one day. I'll show you around.”
She starts descending, a delicate hand brushing along the banister. He follows after her and considers her offer.
Stella and Noctis.
“That sounds nice. I'll think about it.”
Stella reaches the bottom, and looks back. They lock eyes. His stomach swoops like he misses a step down.
She is evidently pleased with his response, but she reins it in. She says nothing else, because she opens the door and they're assaulted by the noise of the party. She gives him one last glance, that bright smile, and disappears into the crowds. He watches that gap even after she's gone, and suddenly the noise and heat and brightness of the room don't bother him at all.
It's only later he realises the girl he spoke with was not just Stella, but Princess Stella Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae. That was the first mistake.
His second mistake: imagining they could be friends. Friends, or something more.
Author: candeefloss
Series: Final Fantasy Versus XIII
Pairing: Noctis/Stella
Rating: G
Type: One shot.
Summary: She's so bright and elegant and almost casual in the way she talks to him. He, on the other hand, feels like he misplaced his voice downstairs.
Notes: Giftfic for winged-requiem's birthday/Christmas! Surpriseee. :D Basically... It's the scene we've all seen shots of by now, but I've thrown a lot of stuff in and tweaked it for more character interaction. I have no idea if I've done either of them justice, since there's barely anything to work off of, but I hope you like it anyway. :) Happy birthday, and merry Christmas, bb.
"These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss, consume."
- William Shakespeare
“That was a moving speech. I'm sure your father would be proud, were he here now.”
Noctis nods stiffly. He's talking to a round-faced man whose name he's already forgotten - some important governor from a neighbouring country? - who has been glowing at him for the past fifteen minutes. In more than one sense of the word. The man produces a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit to dab at his face, glistening from the heat. Small wonder, as the hall is heaving party guests, various important officials and representatives. The stifling atmosphere is not at all dissipated by the air conditioning of the hundred-storey luxury building. Noctis' own tie feels chokingly tight. He shifts; he's been on his feet all evening and the majority of the day, and it's starting to hit home.
“And one so young, too,” the man continues, oblivious to his discomfort. “To have all this responsibility thrust on you at such a young age, I'd imagine it must be difficult. Yet thus far you've proven yourself to handle challenges most gracefully.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, you're quite devoted to your kingdom. You may make a better ruler than your father yet.” The man pauses, as if choosing his next words carefully, holding them up to the light for inspection. (Noctis, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to glance at his wristwatch.) He seems almost nervous, but excited, too. He can't contain the question, and blurts, “Now, with the war over, there's still the matter of the crystal. The last crystal. Have you considered the implications of that? I, along with the rest of us, wonder what you--”
Noctis clears his throat. The man freezes.
“If I may, I'd like to be excused.”
“Ah... by all means!” There is clear disappointment on his face, barely masked when he bows low. “It's been a pleasure talking to you, Your Highness.”
“The same to you,” Noctis lies through his teeth. He slips away, around a group of chatting women in glittering cocktail dresses, by a waiter balancing a tray full of empty glasses, all the while pretending not to hear yet another person calling across to him, trying to initiate another conversation, which will end in that same way, as it has all evening. There are too many people, and it's loud, and the music playing - some classical symphony by some long-ago Tenebrae composer - has long stopped sounding pleasant.
A side door offers escape. He doesn't particularly care where it leads, only that it goes out. It clicks behind him, immediately shutting out the heat and sound. The silence rings in his ears.
He stands there for a moment, relaxing against the door. It's cool and dark and he has to wait for his eyes to adjust. He loosens his tie and pulls it off without as much as untying it properly, just wanting the thing off, and pockets it. Ahead of him there are stairs, and more silence, so he follows them up. The only sound is the rhythm of shoes against steps.
Before he's even reached the top, he sees her: a ghost, he wonders, all bright-white and shining pale, stark against the darkness of the room. She's by the windows, back to him, white dress, honey blonde hair, slim pale arms clasped in front of her. He pauses at the top step, surprised anyone is here at all. Before he can think to ask why, she turns around.
That first impression is one of a honey-sweet smile; he knows then she can't be a ghost. No phantom has a smile like that, one that lights up her eyes. She walks over to him, and he's rooted to the spot. “Prince Noctis,” she says, but does not bow. She half-laughs, nods her head to the stairs below. “Getting a breath of air, too?”
Dark cobalt eyes watch him. It takes him fractionally longer than normal to process there was a question.
Now there is just him, and this girl.
No. Young woman, perhaps. She's about the same age as him, he realises. He manages a smile in reply, but feels more self-conscious than during any speeches he's delivered. He looks away from her, at anywhere but her, briefly giving the room a once-over.
An elaborate chandelier illuminates what is an equally elaborate lounge, but it is still dark, darker than the rest of the building. There are black leather chairs in one corner. On one side of the room is the floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a skyline view of the city. Bleak clouds hang overhead, threatening rain, blotting out the sky in heavy darkness. Glowing skyscrapers rise up to meet them. This has to be one of the highest floors of the building, for a view such as this. It dwarfs even the highest office buildings beneath. Then, leaping out at them from the other side of the room, is a window into an aquarium. The dark and black is replaced by vibrant blue and darting rainbow splashes of fish. Noctis notices little of interest, however. He sees sights like this every day, until even the most elaborate displays of wealth rarely impress him -- if ever they did.
What does catch his eye is what the girl had been looking at. A portrait of the Goddess of Death, the frame held upright possessively by a skeletal, hooded figure. She notices him looking, and walks back over to the dark ornament. He wonders if that is the end of the brief conversation, because silence descends.
“I saw your speech earlier.”
She's looking out at the night sky, now. He decides, for politeness's sake, to move back to her side instead of talking to her back, but he can't think of anything to say in reply. She's so bright and elegant and almost casual in the way she talks to him. He, on the other hand, feels like he misplaced his voice downstairs.
“I'm glad the war's over,” she casts a glance sidelong at him. They're reflected in the window, and he watches her reflection by his side. He suspects where the conversation is headed, like before, but then: “I wish people didn't fight.”
Noctis looks at her. She's earnest, and serious. She looks back at him and his gaze drops away.
“That's naïve,” he manages, finally talking, trying to force down his rising nerves. In the window she frowns, clasps her hands behind her back. War is familiar ground, something he knows, has experienced, can talk about. “Often, people have no choice but to fight. Even so, sometimes I wish the same as you.”
“See,” she smiles up at him. Her face is so expressive, altering at the slightest change in mood; a quirk of the lips, slant of the eyebrows. Now she's bright again, so bright and stark white against everything else, and he decides she's prettier that way. She adds, “The world would be a far better place if more people thought like us, naïve or not.”
“Perhaps.” Her way of thinking is almost foolish in how simple it is, and he half suspects she's trying to trip him up into saying the wrong thing. Maybe she's just sheltered. He shifts, feeling uncomfortable again. “Ah...”
She looks away from the skyline enquiringly. “Yes?”
“I don't know your name.”
“Oh, my apologies. I'm Stella.” She gives a little bow of her head. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Prince Noctis.”
He shakes his head. “Just Noct is fine.” Formality is like a formidable, towering wall between them, like the choking party below. He has no desire to scale that wall, so he knocks it down altogether.
“Is that what your friends call you?” She seems teasing, but corrects herself. “I'm sorry, you don't have to answer.”
“It's fine. Yes, they do.” He paces the length of the room, pretending to be interested in buildings below. Cars are pinpricks of light, briefly illumined by street lamps as they pass beneath. Then they turn a corner and vanish. The click of heels follow after him, and he can see her, Stella, mirrored behind him again, hands still clasped behind her back.
“Were those your friends downstairs?” It's an innocent question, but she's sharp. He stops pacing.
“...One is my chauffeur.” He turns, and looks back at her. “The other two are bodyguards.”
It's true, in a sense. Not that he needs bodyguards, he reasons, but she doesn't need to know so much. She seems to mull it over, puzzled.
“It's late,” he says. “I should be going.”
Her eyes are still questioning. She wants to talk more, he can tell, but she says, “I'm sorry for keeping you. I should be going, too. I'll come with you.” She smiles briefly, leads the way back to the stairs. “If you like, you can visit Tenebrae one day. I'll show you around.”
She starts descending, a delicate hand brushing along the banister. He follows after her and considers her offer.
Stella and Noctis.
“That sounds nice. I'll think about it.”
Stella reaches the bottom, and looks back. They lock eyes. His stomach swoops like he misses a step down.
She is evidently pleased with his response, but she reins it in. She says nothing else, because she opens the door and they're assaulted by the noise of the party. She gives him one last glance, that bright smile, and disappears into the crowds. He watches that gap even after she's gone, and suddenly the noise and heat and brightness of the room don't bother him at all.
It's only later he realises the girl he spoke with was not just Stella, but Princess Stella Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae. That was the first mistake.
His second mistake: imagining they could be friends. Friends, or something more.