[ So. Coughing up flowers is giving him a brain aneurysm. Not a real one, the sort that'd drop him dead in his tracks, but the sort of metaphorical trauma that has him stopping at each and every gas stop to hurl petals into the trash bin and then some. Spitting them out alone is a profoundly awful hassle, made worse when he's not entirely willing to order Specs to pull over every couple of hours to regurgitate his body mass in plant matter on the side of the road. But the crowning pinnacle to the terribleness of this all has to be the taste that wells up each and every time, like Noctis makes it a concerted habit to pull up clods of grass and haphazardly shove them in his mouth at will when even Iggy's martyring patience won't get him to touch salad with a ten-foot pole.
Fed up with this illness, the only real option left is the process of elimination, like correlating whether or not it's his childhood affections for Luna that have him hacking up petals when Umbra comes by, or if it's one of the guys that has him suffering through bouts of extreme cognitive dissonance. As if he doesn't know what any of this means, compelled to heave up blossom after blossom whether or not he figures out the perpetrator (hah).
But standing before Gladio, resisting the urge to vomit up that wrinkled tulip swimming up his throat, Noct's been at his wit's end for a while. No point in subtlety when everyone and their mother knows. ]
Gladio. [ Ignore how absolutely squashed his voice sounds as he dejectedly harrumphs into his hand, flinging the latest clump of petals he's amassed in his mouth down. ] You have to fix this.
[ Noct's tired, and he's cranky, and he's been pretty much over this lovelorn sickness since their road trip began, but the wet, drippy flowers piled up at his feet beg to differ. ]
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Fed up with this illness, the only real option left is the process of elimination, like correlating whether or not it's his childhood affections for Luna that have him hacking up petals when Umbra comes by, or if it's one of the guys that has him suffering through bouts of extreme cognitive dissonance. As if he doesn't know what any of this means, compelled to heave up blossom after blossom whether or not he figures out the perpetrator (hah).
But standing before Gladio, resisting the urge to vomit up that wrinkled tulip swimming up his throat, Noct's been at his wit's end for a while. No point in subtlety when everyone and their mother knows. ]
Gladio. [ Ignore how absolutely squashed his voice sounds as he dejectedly harrumphs into his hand, flinging the latest clump of petals he's amassed in his mouth down. ] You have to fix this.
[ Noct's tired, and he's cranky, and he's been pretty much over this lovelorn sickness since their road trip began, but the wet, drippy flowers piled up at his feet beg to differ. ]