[ No, Ignis definitely is not one to be taken lightly. Noctis still remembers all the times he and Prompto had dragged Ignis to the arcade, and the man had complained up until he whooped all their asses at the games they had worked so hard on, like it's some kind of magic, like he somehow practices in the secret of his home without their knowledge.
Honestly, they will never know. ]
Not as long as I'd like.
[ Noctis grumbles gently, like he isn't sitting with his knee pressed up against his, closer than he needs to be, like he isn't thrumming with anticipation, his mind more on the man beside him than the game he's playing. He's losing, steadily, but he doesn't care -- Ignis is playing along even though Noctis has just sprung this on him out of the blue; the man's improvisation skills is impressive, and he settles in with him, giving his knee a quick, discreet squeeze.
It's a clumsy form of seduction, perhaps -- but no less earnest for it. The ball is in his court, and Noctis waits until they've settled in to play (or, at least, enact a believable farce of it) before he decides to speak next, a script all laid out in his head. ]
Hey, Iggy? What do you do when you have a crush on someone, and you're dying to tell them?
[ There they go, the opening volley, a narrative that is reminiscent of the conversation they both had the other night, with Noctis curled up in his arms, practically curling like a contented cat, asking when Ignis had first realized he wanted him. Here they are, turning back the clock, re-setting the stage. Noctis is looking from his game to him, his expression a mask of innocent intent.
[ Maybe Prompto does, honing his skills with a controller late into the night at the detriment of sleep. Practice as opposed to talent, repetition to inborn skill. But Noct's honed the precarious juxtaposition between the two, bent in such a way that his knee benignly jostles his, that Ignis is disrupted from thinking up witty improv on his birthday in favor of intensely contemplating Noctis's fingertips where they're compliantly settled over the analog sticks. They're fine, tapered from tip to knuckle, the same ones he's seen gliding over the piano like it's a rushing current, or pushing their way inside him, and he visiblyβ visibly rights to attention when one hand grasps around his knee. He's being played; he can't help but be played when Noct's so winningly earnest, prodded like so many piano keys, and Ignis swallows, gaze trained back on the screen. ]
There's no sense in bottling it up, after a certain point. I believe even a passing fancy would show itself, eventually. A certain look, or gesture. [ Essentially, the point of no return, like the months and months leading up to his own confession, maddeningly aware of the insurrection of pining for the prince's heart, and doing nothing to avert it. He can't live it down, even now; at death's door he'll be the same, working against any interest in survival. It's all self-destruction from here on out. ] If you can't bring yourself to let go of it, there's really only one thing left to do.
[ Oh, he's blessed without recompense, just like he's cursed by this exhilaration that clarifies itself in his face when he glances down at him. Ignis is no longer that young boy with a backbone that bends at the first sign of trouble, but he's still just as naΓ―ve. Pledging his life to Noctis hasn't rendered him the least bit immune to his charms. ]
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Honestly, they will never know. ]
Not as long as I'd like.
[ Noctis grumbles gently, like he isn't sitting with his knee pressed up against his, closer than he needs to be, like he isn't thrumming with anticipation, his mind more on the man beside him than the game he's playing. He's losing, steadily, but he doesn't care -- Ignis is playing along even though Noctis has just sprung this on him out of the blue; the man's improvisation skills is impressive, and he settles in with him, giving his knee a quick, discreet squeeze.
It's a clumsy form of seduction, perhaps -- but no less earnest for it. The ball is in his court, and Noctis waits until they've settled in to play (or, at least, enact a believable farce of it) before he decides to speak next, a script all laid out in his head. ]
Hey, Iggy? What do you do when you have a crush on someone, and you're dying to tell them?
[ There they go, the opening volley, a narrative that is reminiscent of the conversation they both had the other night, with Noctis curled up in his arms, practically curling like a contented cat, asking when Ignis had first realized he wanted him. Here they are, turning back the clock, re-setting the stage. Noctis is looking from his game to him, his expression a mask of innocent intent.
Happy birthday, darling. ]
no subject
There's no sense in bottling it up, after a certain point. I believe even a passing fancy would show itself, eventually. A certain look, or gesture. [ Essentially, the point of no return, like the months and months leading up to his own confession, maddeningly aware of the insurrection of pining for the prince's heart, and doing nothing to avert it. He can't live it down, even now; at death's door he'll be the same, working against any interest in survival. It's all self-destruction from here on out. ] If you can't bring yourself to let go of it, there's really only one thing left to do.
[ Oh, he's blessed without recompense, just like he's cursed by this exhilaration that clarifies itself in his face when he glances down at him. Ignis is no longer that young boy with a backbone that bends at the first sign of trouble, but he's still just as naΓ―ve. Pledging his life to Noctis hasn't rendered him the least bit immune to his charms. ]
What do you suppose that is?