[ It's over. There's no overwrought farewell, however, even when the both of them have somehow spectacularly failed to disentangle themselves from each other's lives. Weeks upon weeks have been building up to a climactic point that falls flat on its face; there is no shouting affair when he packs away his belongings, George's pitiful meowing around Noct's ankles a visceral contrast to the freeze-frame of unbecoming horror on his Highness's when he shuts the door behind him. Maybe Noct would've gotten on his knees and snapped every retort with his teeth to get the last word in, but he loves Ignis more than winning an argument that's misplaced its counterpoint, and perhaps that's why he's helpless to the very last, goading him to cross a distance he won't breach, won't even attempt traversing.
Noctis doesn't deserve this. He knows. He knows. His belligerence should have proved useful to him, if Ignis wasn't so much of a coward, surrendering over to causality. It's not so bad, the gilded knife of Noct's frustration hoisted up over his head and daring the stab for as long as his anger can be held aloft, a feeling so surreal that he can't remember why he'd ever gone without it— the hot insistence of Noct's fervor bowed over him, unsparing, galvanizing him to his resolve in a way he'd never intended. The crown prince is gorgeous, as always, even in the deep chasm of his malevolence.
After that is the mishmash of days upon days, preparing for the long trip abroad. He's making up for lost time and going through the motions, charting out the gaps so his visits to the Citadel will be less and less frequent, cemented to the journey like some nomad who's lost sight of the destination, the very reason for leaving. Ignis has gone to scandalizing lengths to avoid Noct all the while, politely deflect the stream of voicemails and harangued texts. He doesn't know how to respond, because he doesn't know what Noctis would prefer to hear, so he sticks to silence, up until Noct announces his arrival in the Citadel, breaking their careful dance of avoidance with one last cutting blow to his conscience.
Ignis, much too late for contriving an excuse for his absence, finds Noct holed up in one corner of his room, legs bunched up on the rolly chair. The face of him is slanted away, but in a show of audacity he's gotten his hands around the satin box he'd left on the table. Inside it, the ring's glinting, cool and faceted, and it's asking too much out of Ignis to relinquish his sudden, intense sympathy for moving targets at the end of a shooting range when Noctis glances up. Sleeplessness brands his eyes, dark and furious and sad. From this close, he's only just registering the stinging quality to them, akin to sharp resentment, or a blade sawing over bone, and it's so strange how terror underscores desire. His fingers drag over the paneling of the door like he's set to rip it, the movement ungainly, dripping with shock. ]
the life pursuit.
Noctis doesn't deserve this. He knows. He knows. His belligerence should have proved useful to him, if Ignis wasn't so much of a coward, surrendering over to causality. It's not so bad, the gilded knife of Noct's frustration hoisted up over his head and daring the stab for as long as his anger can be held aloft, a feeling so surreal that he can't remember why he'd ever gone without it— the hot insistence of Noct's fervor bowed over him, unsparing, galvanizing him to his resolve in a way he'd never intended. The crown prince is gorgeous, as always, even in the deep chasm of his malevolence.
After that is the mishmash of days upon days, preparing for the long trip abroad. He's making up for lost time and going through the motions, charting out the gaps so his visits to the Citadel will be less and less frequent, cemented to the journey like some nomad who's lost sight of the destination, the very reason for leaving. Ignis has gone to scandalizing lengths to avoid Noct all the while, politely deflect the stream of voicemails and harangued texts. He doesn't know how to respond, because he doesn't know what Noctis would prefer to hear, so he sticks to silence, up until Noct announces his arrival in the Citadel, breaking their careful dance of avoidance with one last cutting blow to his conscience.
Ignis, much too late for contriving an excuse for his absence, finds Noct holed up in one corner of his room, legs bunched up on the rolly chair. The face of him is slanted away, but in a show of audacity he's gotten his hands around the satin box he'd left on the table. Inside it, the ring's glinting, cool and faceted, and it's asking too much out of Ignis to relinquish his sudden, intense sympathy for moving targets at the end of a shooting range when Noctis glances up. Sleeplessness brands his eyes, dark and furious and sad. From this close, he's only just registering the stinging quality to them, akin to sharp resentment, or a blade sawing over bone, and it's so strange how terror underscores desire. His fingers drag over the paneling of the door like he's set to rip it, the movement ungainly, dripping with shock. ]
I wasn't expecting you to arrive nearly so soon.