[ This isn't anger as it should be; instead of weighing on his voice it levers itself on his own physicality, devolving into a mess of contradictions, searching for a way out of him. It's puncturing little holes in him on its way out, not unlike passion even when it's reversed and his mouth's split with it. There's no need to call it otherwise: sightlessness isn't an impediment or a limitation, but a memory he's dragged with him through his very lowest points, one that's only festered for the worse with Noct's return, when he's reminded more and more that he can't be who he used to be, that he's irreversibly changed, that there was never any going back when he only knows how to move forward, or stand perfectly still. This is Noctis asking him why he can't get over his ignominy, and this is the blind leading the blind.
Noctis doesn't need him anymore.
Instead, it's reminders like these that only cement the point further, eliciting that little jump of pain that sunders itself to his fingertips; he's only become a burden for himβ and he isn't suited for the king at all. Not as he is now, grown cynical and pining in his absence, sabotaging his own happiness, sick with revulsion for how he's clung to him. And he's scared that Noct might be clutching onto an affection that would sooner do him harm, acting on recollections from more than a decade ago, contenting himself with Ignis out of familiarity even as he gouges him open with his words.
Right now, he can't even see Noctis glare at the closet in earnest, but he can hear the agony he's stirred in him, and he finds himself lowering his hand, fumbling for Noct's fingers. He's grown used to his blindness, at leastβ it only takes scraping light fingers down his sleeve until he's taken possession of his hand, clutching heavily around the palm. ]
I understand. You're right. I didn't mean to hurt you.
[ Even in his stiff-backed formality, he can be penitent, quiet after the outage has lashed out in him has abated, left him overly solemn. It hurts badly; he doesn't have enough distance from Noctis to miss him enough to make himself inseparable, only to despair that there are less and less reasons to remain at his beck-and-call, but Ignis doesn't take refuge in silence this time around. Maintaining his hold on Noctis as Noctis maintains his hold over him is all he can do to prevent the tremors. What else is he supposed to do but bide his time until Noct outgrows him? Things will never get any better than overstaying his welcome. ]
You don't need to do this for me, Noct. It's already more than enough being at your side, even if I'm not nearly as competent as I was.
[ Ten years. Ten years, and the way he bridges the divide is with self-flagellation, as he's wont to do. ]
[ Noctis doesn't need him the way he used to -- dependent on him for almost everything, looking to him for guidance for as long as he could remember, until the Crystal changed everything, the ten years apart tearing asunder the bonds that kept them together, renewing and forging new ones in its place. The Noctis that stepped out of the Crystal is no longer the Noctis that had gone into it; and neither is the Ignis still the one that had seen him off at a distance, unable to change a thing.
When the devastation passed and came time to rebuild, the differences began to reveal themselves in greater detail, exposed in the streaming light of the dawn. Even so, he loves Ignis no less, bound in both memory and the hope for the future. The uncertainty of the present has wrong-footed him, and love has never been anything if not complicated, even more so when the giddiness of a lover's reunion passes, and in its wake are the pieces that have been left hanging in his absence.
The light that fueled their fire then has burned a hole between them, and Noctis knows they have to find each other again, reconnect. So far it's been more cross-wires than anything else, Noctis senses a quiet withdrawal and distance that he yearns to bridge. And it's with that in mind that his fingers thread through Ignis' own when he seeks him out, apology laced in those words when there's little for him to be sorry for. How can he begrudge him a thing when Ignis had done nothing but love him, his devotion and loyalty second to none, offered wholly and without recompense, and finally, finally Noctis can find himself becoming worthy of such a gift, of him, that this time he can be the one to return the favor after all these years.
A lump forming in his throat, he wordlessly tugs his lover towards him, pulling him into a tight embrace. ] No, it's not. [ He says into his shoulder, other arm wrapping around his shoulder to keep him close. It shouldn't be enough just to stay by his side. ] You should be asking for more.
[ He tells him, because isn't that what lovers do? Noctis might have a profoundly limited scope of what lovers do and don't do, but he thinks they're not supposed to still be like retainers, contented with what's given instead of seeking the first portion, the lion's share. That Ignis murmurs about his incompetence brings up the realisation that he's internalised it into his psyche, that somehow his vision loss had reduced his usefulness to Noctis, and the thought of it makes his heart clench painfully. ]
Iggy. [ He squeezes him tight, aching for him. ] I love you. I don't care about what you can or can't do for me. The person that you are now is good enough.
[ Ignis, to Noctis, is more than the sum of his parts, more than what he has lost -- in fact, the man is pretty damn competent, all things considered; and is most likely to effortlessly kick the asses of more than half of the people in this citadel. He doesn't release him, childishly greedy for what little Ignis allows of affection, and Noctis desperate to smooth over the wounds Ignis had flayed open in his own self-flagellation.
He misses him, he thinks, even when Ignis has never strayed from his side, and up until now Noctis isn't sure what to do about that, except to keep trying, to find a way for them to fit together again. ] There's nothing to forgive. Tell me what to do to make you happy.
[ It's been a long life, a longer career of trying to hold himself above reproach, impressing a conviction onto others that he couldn't entirely seize himself, influencing those who stood leagues above him, however indirect. Remaining with the prince always confounded that ruse by virtue of Noctis being himself, radiating his passions like a restless sun. Ignis hadn't asked to be inducted; he'd merely found himself falling step-by-step beside him, dedicated to the pursuit of Noctis like he could guard the shadow he cast with his own, shield every vulnerability with sheer will by force of habit.
The burden of closeness only came much later, trying to shield him from the death of King Regis and Lady Lunafreya, outlawed and trekking through their own lands like strangers homesick for a place to return. There'd been no time to confront Noct like he should have when he was only just coming to terms with his own loss. He'd hardly thought of himself beyond fallibility, and then the prince vanished, taking the rest of the light with him.
Over these ten years, it's become all too easy to pick apart his mistakes. There are many, many, the same ones that meddle into his consciousness when he startles awake and Noct's dozing at his side, soft and tinged with sleep. In some ways, he'll always be mired in the past, Gladio and Ignis not a day older than the last day he saw them in Altissia, though their voices have changed, and Noctis not any older than twenty years old, though he's grown. His hair's shaggier (still the same sort of unkempt, though not prepensely so) and stubbled; still just wisps along his chin that he's advised to take a razor to on more than one occasion. That might be the worst of it, trapped by time like some trick of the mind, second-guessing his own decline.
So it's more than taking the lion's share, it's that his coping mechanisms predate Noctis's return, ages before, listening to the chime of Ardyn's laughter and acquainting himself with failure. Good enough. How narrowly they averted losing everything. It's the sort of mourning that's only just started to alleviate, but still a long way until acceptance.
Noctis comes to him, a paragon of fever (voice hopscotching his vocal cords), and Ignis's head rests against him, overcome. Depressiveness doesn't leave with just words, digging shrewd and coring out his soul for the last decade he's kept the prophecy of Noct's demise like an anvil over his head, but he'd beaten the odds. And evenβ even if he'd wanted to see Noctis so badly, kingly and regal and still just himself, it's enough like this, grabbing a handful of his shirt and holding him steady. ]
Then I'd stay by your side, if you'll have me. I'd always choose that. [ Another hundred or thousand lifetimes and he'd always pick him; to be blinded or downtrodden or killed has never had any bearing on his love for him, and it's crushing damnably on the windpipe when Ignis breaths in, the weight of a decade on his lungs. ] You've made me the happiest.
[ However misdirected, his anger only lies with himself, the frustration he's bottled up shorting out at the worst moments. For all he's regretted, he's never thought of losing his sight as a price. Here, in this moment with Noctis, light dripping in like filaments at the very corners of his vision, all that he can see, there's only the issue of coming to terms with himself leftβ knowing his inadequacies, and still returning to Noctis at the end of it all. ]
Thank you, Noct. I'm glad to be with you, even as I am.
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no subject
Noctis doesn't need him anymore.
Instead, it's reminders like these that only cement the point further, eliciting that little jump of pain that sunders itself to his fingertips; he's only become a burden for himβ and he isn't suited for the king at all. Not as he is now, grown cynical and pining in his absence, sabotaging his own happiness, sick with revulsion for how he's clung to him. And he's scared that Noct might be clutching onto an affection that would sooner do him harm, acting on recollections from more than a decade ago, contenting himself with Ignis out of familiarity even as he gouges him open with his words.
Right now, he can't even see Noctis glare at the closet in earnest, but he can hear the agony he's stirred in him, and he finds himself lowering his hand, fumbling for Noct's fingers. He's grown used to his blindness, at leastβ it only takes scraping light fingers down his sleeve until he's taken possession of his hand, clutching heavily around the palm. ]
I understand. You're right. I didn't mean to hurt you.
[ Even in his stiff-backed formality, he can be penitent, quiet after the outage has lashed out in him has abated, left him overly solemn. It hurts badly; he doesn't have enough distance from Noctis to miss him enough to make himself inseparable, only to despair that there are less and less reasons to remain at his beck-and-call, but Ignis doesn't take refuge in silence this time around. Maintaining his hold on Noctis as Noctis maintains his hold over him is all he can do to prevent the tremors. What else is he supposed to do but bide his time until Noct outgrows him? Things will never get any better than overstaying his welcome. ]
You don't need to do this for me, Noct. It's already more than enough being at your side, even if I'm not nearly as competent as I was.
[ Ten years. Ten years, and the way he bridges the divide is with self-flagellation, as he's wont to do. ]
... I'm sorry. Old habit. Will you forgive me?
no subject
When the devastation passed and came time to rebuild, the differences began to reveal themselves in greater detail, exposed in the streaming light of the dawn. Even so, he loves Ignis no less, bound in both memory and the hope for the future. The uncertainty of the present has wrong-footed him, and love has never been anything if not complicated, even more so when the giddiness of a lover's reunion passes, and in its wake are the pieces that have been left hanging in his absence.
The light that fueled their fire then has burned a hole between them, and Noctis knows they have to find each other again, reconnect. So far it's been more cross-wires than anything else, Noctis senses a quiet withdrawal and distance that he yearns to bridge. And it's with that in mind that his fingers thread through Ignis' own when he seeks him out, apology laced in those words when there's little for him to be sorry for. How can he begrudge him a thing when Ignis had done nothing but love him, his devotion and loyalty second to none, offered wholly and without recompense, and finally, finally Noctis can find himself becoming worthy of such a gift, of him, that this time he can be the one to return the favor after all these years.
A lump forming in his throat, he wordlessly tugs his lover towards him, pulling him into a tight embrace. ] No, it's not. [ He says into his shoulder, other arm wrapping around his shoulder to keep him close. It shouldn't be enough just to stay by his side. ] You should be asking for more.
[ He tells him, because isn't that what lovers do? Noctis might have a profoundly limited scope of what lovers do and don't do, but he thinks they're not supposed to still be like retainers, contented with what's given instead of seeking the first portion, the lion's share. That Ignis murmurs about his incompetence brings up the realisation that he's internalised it into his psyche, that somehow his vision loss had reduced his usefulness to Noctis, and the thought of it makes his heart clench painfully. ]
Iggy. [ He squeezes him tight, aching for him. ] I love you. I don't care about what you can or can't do for me. The person that you are now is good enough.
[ Ignis, to Noctis, is more than the sum of his parts, more than what he has lost -- in fact, the man is pretty damn competent, all things considered; and is most likely to effortlessly kick the asses of more than half of the people in this citadel. He doesn't release him, childishly greedy for what little Ignis allows of affection, and Noctis desperate to smooth over the wounds Ignis had flayed open in his own self-flagellation.
He misses him, he thinks, even when Ignis has never strayed from his side, and up until now Noctis isn't sure what to do about that, except to keep trying, to find a way for them to fit together again. ] There's nothing to forgive. Tell me what to do to make you happy.
no subject
The burden of closeness only came much later, trying to shield him from the death of King Regis and Lady Lunafreya, outlawed and trekking through their own lands like strangers homesick for a place to return. There'd been no time to confront Noct like he should have when he was only just coming to terms with his own loss. He'd hardly thought of himself beyond fallibility, and then the prince vanished, taking the rest of the light with him.
Over these ten years, it's become all too easy to pick apart his mistakes. There are many, many, the same ones that meddle into his consciousness when he startles awake and Noct's dozing at his side, soft and tinged with sleep. In some ways, he'll always be mired in the past, Gladio and Ignis not a day older than the last day he saw them in Altissia, though their voices have changed, and Noctis not any older than twenty years old, though he's grown. His hair's shaggier (still the same sort of unkempt, though not prepensely so) and stubbled; still just wisps along his chin that he's advised to take a razor to on more than one occasion. That might be the worst of it, trapped by time like some trick of the mind, second-guessing his own decline.
So it's more than taking the lion's share, it's that his coping mechanisms predate Noctis's return, ages before, listening to the chime of Ardyn's laughter and acquainting himself with failure. Good enough. How narrowly they averted losing everything. It's the sort of mourning that's only just started to alleviate, but still a long way until acceptance.
Noctis comes to him, a paragon of fever (voice hopscotching his vocal cords), and Ignis's head rests against him, overcome. Depressiveness doesn't leave with just words, digging shrewd and coring out his soul for the last decade he's kept the prophecy of Noct's demise like an anvil over his head, but he'd beaten the odds. And evenβ even if he'd wanted to see Noctis so badly, kingly and regal and still just himself, it's enough like this, grabbing a handful of his shirt and holding him steady. ]
Then I'd stay by your side, if you'll have me. I'd always choose that. [ Another hundred or thousand lifetimes and he'd always pick him; to be blinded or downtrodden or killed has never had any bearing on his love for him, and it's crushing damnably on the windpipe when Ignis breaths in, the weight of a decade on his lungs. ] You've made me the happiest.
[ However misdirected, his anger only lies with himself, the frustration he's bottled up shorting out at the worst moments. For all he's regretted, he's never thought of losing his sight as a price. Here, in this moment with Noctis, light dripping in like filaments at the very corners of his vision, all that he can see, there's only the issue of coming to terms with himself leftβ knowing his inadequacies, and still returning to Noctis at the end of it all. ]
Thank you, Noct. I'm glad to be with you, even as I am.