[ In their defense, someone did say the mine shaft is haunted. And naturally, as curiosities and cats and reckless teenagers go, such an assertion necessitates investigation, especially in person, on a dark and gloomy Saturday night. Frankenstein, after all, did not create his monster on a sunny Monday morning for obvious monster-making reasons, and it's that same logic which finds them at the bottom of a mine shaft with nobody around.
Prompto is the first to freak, but cooler heads (read: Noctis) prevail, and instead of doing the sensible thing, which will be to dial emergency services (most notably the fire rescue department, tasked with firefighting, rescuing cats from all manner of trees, and currently, errant princes and their retainers from abandoned mine shafts in Buttfuck Nowhere), he calls Ignis. He supposes he'd probably call Ignis even if he was trapped on an island and was afforded only one phone call, because Noctis is prepared to swear that Ignis has the tracking skills of a bloodhound, probably has his phone tagged to within one square meter of any given area (not unlike a chip on a pet), and possesses an over-abundance of common sense that Noctis has largely come to depend on.
In short: the prince's unrelenting, unapologetic codependence on the royal chamberlain should probably be reviewed for the sake of the latter's mental health. Attempts to mitigate the matter should probably be made, even though all attempts will be blithely ignored by aforementioned prince. Prompto shares this particular view to a certain extent, if the look he gives him when he calls Ignis is any indication (dude! 911's right there!), but Noctis has all the unshakeable faith of a mountain in Ignis, and it seems like a lifetime before the firemen arrive.
Tall, broad and burly, the lot of them seem to have stepped out from the pages of Firefighters Weekly, and Noctis and Prompto were rescued in under five minutes, pulled up and none the worse for wear. All's well that ends well, right? Noctis might be the prince -- and he might only have eyes for none other than his currently irate adviser glaring daggers at him from practically a yard away, with Gladio very cleverly keeping to himself (which is saying something when the man is as bulky and imposing as they come) -- but it doesn't mean that he doesn't notice just how handsome the firemen are.
Lookers, the lot of them, like they'd just rushed over from a calendar photoshoot or something. And it doesn't hurt that they're milling around him, too. Prompto's slid off somewhere in the span of these couple of minutes, and Noctis is grateful enough to take some time to thank them -- never let it be said that the crown prince lacks manners terribly, even if something in the pit of his stomach very helpfully reminds him that he's going to be in deep trouble with Ignis later.
It takes him up until Ignis' sudden ominous presence, his hand clamped onto his shoulder for Noctis to notice that the men might possibly be flirting with him, and the prince's gratitude and friendliness might also be misconstrued as reciprocation of a strange sort. It's tempting to be invited for drinks at the station, because maybe now Ignis will see him as an older, more mature person (nevermind that he and Prompto needed to be rescued because the thought jumping down a mine shaft at night would be a great idea). But a niggling feeling remains; Ignis smells like coffee and there hints of coffee stains on those pristine cuffs, and come to think of it, he did hear a curious sound of a can being crushed...
... All the same, he knows that Ignis is right, and as much as he doesn't like to be called away, Ignis leaves him the dignity of staying by his side instead of doing the physical herding, a silent request for cooperation instead of prying it from him, and Noctis finds himself more amenable to direction. He leans closer to Ignis just as instinctively, the way he always orients himself towards him when he's close, like Ignis is his true north and Noctis can do nothing but obey.
True north, in every way that counts. So while Noctis is tempted, he's shit at drinking and judging from the tension in Ignis' shoulders, this is a situation better resolved by Noctis not pushing his damn luck. He presses closer to Ignis, a silent capitulation to his adviser's particular gambit (not that it'll alleviate the anger he feels practically emanating from him), gives them polite smiles and declines, because prince or not he's still a minor, and says his thanks before nodding at Ignis, and he's the one that impulsively takes his adviser's hand, making their way to where the Regalia is parked.
Prompto and Gladio seem to have disappeared from where Noctis had earlier spotted them -- and he wonders if it's because Ignis looks so eerily calm that the other two would much rather take their chances with a pack of enraged Coeurls than be in Ignis' immediate vicinity.
Noctis is contemplating that briefly, himself. But Ignis did just pull off an impressive search and rescue expedition and successfully extracted them in under half an hour, and the prince cannot deny being just a little bit turned on by that -- even if that's possibly the last thing on Ignis' mind right now. Stupid decisions involving mine shafts don't often lend themselves to meaningful foreplay. Ah, he'll make it up to him. ]
Thanks, Iggy. [ He chooses to break the silence. Any longer, and there'd be frost in his ears or something. ] You got them here really quick.
[ That's just old habit, tooling his composure so he appears only mildly aggrieved as opposed to harboring actual homicidal tendencies over a couple of firefighters tossing Noctis come-hither stares like they're impervious to shame or guilt. If none of them harbor a functioning conscience, his suspicions wouldn't be ruffled in the slightest. Noct's already proven he has little to no concern for his own safety, but he'd expected more out of law-abiding members of the community than encouraging a night of heavy drinking to a minor.
But then Noct shimmies close and renounces temptation, and ever the pragmatic, Ignis doesn't begrudge him his hand as he's led away from the scene of the crime. May the depth of his pathos be damned and sent to the lowest circle of hell for being furtively proud that Noct readily complied without batting an eye. It does nothing to combat the warmongering exasperation in him, still out for blood, but it does harsh the buzz of his anger to something slower, more susceptible to persuasion. Less of a spiracorn (or coeurl) rampage, and more so how recovering from anaphylactic shock might go down, the feeling in his fingers parceled back in increments with Noctis's soft grip over him, holding him together.
Only once they're before the car is he faced with the dilemma of letting Noct's hand go to fish out the car keys or revealing he's been toting a crushed coffee can around in his other hand like a bloody moron. Naturally, he chooses a good compromise, peeling away to shuck the can into the nearest wastebasket and allowing brashness to externalize itself in him. He's fairly earned the right to be upset, near despotic around Gladio and withholding the worst of his temper for Prompto's sake. Good thing both of them have gotten the hint and dipped as soon as humanly possible. ]
Oh, no need to thank me prematurely. We're not remotely through yet.
[ His smile's so frighteningly grim when he unlocks the car, an expression that rolls off the rest of his tightly-wound frame in turbulent waves. He's too set in his ways to even consider the notion of Noctis running for the hills upon opening the car door in expectation he'll resign himself to his fate and coming around to the driver's seat to ease inside. Give him a moment and he's going through the normal functions, buckling his seatbelt, easing the key into the ignition with deathly seriousness, offering Noctis more than enough time to send his last prayers to the Astrals heavenward.
Then, only then, does he allow the engine to run sleek, hands on the steering wheel, easing out of the parking lot. He doesn't continue his train of thought for a while, practically basking in the silence, though every ounce of his backlash is horrifically apparent with his cuffs reeking of Ebony and his fingers slippery on the steering wheel, not enough grace applied when they hit the road, heading back for Noctis's apartment. Sternness becomes him, though the facetiousness in the next question he poses is too thick to even begin deciphering. ]
Why don't we start from the top? While I contemplate how to break the news best to your father, you can tell what in the blazes possessed you to fling yourself down a mine shaft with a civilian in tow? [ Prompto, now relegated to a mere liability. Sad life. ] Given your stellar wit, I'm sure you should be able to think of an adequate excuse.
Before that, why do you smell like you bathed in coffee? Is that a thing now?
[ Princes, it seems, come equipped with a profound lack of shame and urgency in answering questions meant to guilt-trip and chastise, instead preferring to craft some of their own, entirely apropos of nothing where the thread of conversation is concerned and wholly relevant where olfactory sensibilities come into play. Start from the top, indeed.
Also ouch, Prompto. Noctis instinctively knows the extent of Ignis' anger and spite -- for some reason, his best friend always tends to bear the brunt of it whenever Ignis is in the mood for bloodshed.
Ignis is a whole new level of furious, Noctis knows. He knows that particular murderous line of tension that locks those shoulders, the tighter-than-usual grip on the steering wheel, and the fact that Ignis is driving like Prompto on a good day, which is saying a lot where the both of them are concerned. And speaking of Prompto, a part of him is almost wistful -- he's sure Gladio isn't currently giving him a good reaming for the awful decision to leap into a mineshaft with nothing more than sheer confidence to carry the day. Although if Gladio is giving Prompto a reaming of an entirely different sort, Noctis very pointedly doesn't need to know.
But all the same. He's sure Prompto's having one hell of a better time than Noctis is right now, having spent the past few minutes in a silence so heavily pregnant with tension it would be having octuplets in the backseat of the Regalia right about now. As it stands, the prince is pretty sure Ignis hadn't been contemplating about how to break the news to Regis -- surely such a thing wouldn't warrant such a profoundly murderous aura. He's relating news of Noctis' stupidity exploits to the king, not gearing up to kill a superhero (although at this point Noctis wouldn't dismiss the latter speculation so cavalierly).
He stares at his cuffs instead of that handsome face that looks like it could have been carved from granite, picking up on the coffee stains that had somehow mysteriously found their way on it. Ignis had always been a frustratingly impeccable dresser; transgressions like these are unforgivable, and yet, here they are. ]
[ The Regalia's sleek, handles like a dream when he's got the temper for coasting around city blocks a citizen to devout to the rulebook, but these are hardly ordinary circumstances, as far as princes with a proclivity toward acts of extreme recklessness go. It's not about keeping appearances, the way he's making the conscious decision to roll a window down and ever-so-slightly diffuse the odor. It's never been about keeping appearances, but pungent with coffee and a temper stretched thin like canvas over a drum, Ignis can adapt, keeping the manic beat intact like he's keeping the heat on Noctis's deflections, striking each and every chord. One man's mortification is another man's triumph, and he's not prepared to give up his advantage out of sheer jealousy, of all things. ]
Evading the question, are we? [ No use stumbling past that minor pitfall when he can just take a leaf out of Noctis's book and hurl himself into it. Briefly, Ignis is taken aback; it's there in his eyes, the very visceral discomfort of being called out, but then he's staring very adamantly at the windshield, flipping on the headlights from dim to something keener for something to do. One diversionary tactic for another. ] It's as you can plainly see. Spilled a tad on my sleeves. There's no helping it now.
[ Just like crushing that can barehanded, it's an inevitability. Couldn't be avoided. Noct's currently skewering him with his gaze, lit devastatingly beautiful in profile, but even that won't disabuse Ignis of his laser-precise stare at the traffic light, red for the past thirty seconds with no other cars in the immediate vicinity. The smell's crushing in the car for some goddamned reason, like he took a carafe of iced mocha and poured it all over the car's upholstery, and Ignis's fingers perceptibly tighten over the wheel. Outside, the wind's whistling a thin stream, the tires making an uncomfortable squelch whenever he zooms into a flat standstill, takes too sharp of a turn so that the asphalt screams with each abrupt stop. ]
Does that bother you more than coming up with a way to save face? I'm hardly the one that'll be censured later.
[ That's a lie, or half of one; at least some of the blame will defect to him, by virtue of being Noctis's chamberlain and impromptu babysitter, but that's the farthest thing from relevant at the moment. They're not seven minutes away from the prince's apartment, but the minutes tick on like an inconsolable burden, condensing with the seconds, trapping him in a ploy of his own making. Upon closer inspection, Ignis isn't all that irate, only brimming with the sort of frustration that fills closed spaces like the interior of a car insatiably, digging uncomfortably at his lungs like Ebony on the sinuses. Noct enthralls many people, a natural consequence of his station, but it wouldn't have taken a single pretense for any of those men to whisk him down to the fire department and thoroughly snare him. A bottle of spirits, maybe two, some easy lack of restraint coupled with that curious look Noctis directed at them, smiling and sweet and entirely unfettered. He trusts Noctis, but not a few strangers that'd pull wisecracks and encircle royalty like wolves to their quarry.
Ignis lets too much slip, riddled clean through with envy. Can't expect him to think straight as far as he can handle a vehicle under extreme duress. ]
[ Noctis is quiet for a long moment, observing him -- this is definitely an anomaly of some sort that bears classification, and while Noctis isn't a human behavior expert, he's had enough experience in decoding Ignis' habits and idiosyncrasies to venture relatively informed guesses. He's rolling down the window like Noctis has somehow landed a hit -- it had purely been unintentional, the prince unable to ignore such a strong, heavy scent hanging in the car. He doesn't feel particularly triumphant, only curious as the silence spans seconds and an answer begins to coalesce in Noctis' mind. The thrumming tension, the obvious discomfort in his eyes for an instant, as if a curtain's fallen just temporarily, allowing him a look into the inner workings of Ignis' mind.
He likes these moments, he likes knowing that the man he loves isn't all that immune to the world around him, or patentedly allergic to emotions of any kind that don't involve frustration or anger. This is new, and this is good. He doesn't fault him for staring dead ahead, as if he could will the traffic light into spilling its secrets if he glared into them hard enough. Diversionary tactics; quite like Ignis when Noctis has him on the ropes, except this time it is purely accidental.
It's got something to do with the coffee, he thinks, and he remembering hearing the crinkle of a can, had dismissed it as a trick of hearing because it didn't seem likely, but now he starts to put two and two together, supposes that he'd been busy imbibing another can of Ebony while waiting for the rescue to come underway -- it had been quite late, after all. But crushing a can doesn't actually come with all the lovely details that should come with soaking in a bath full of coffee, and his brain lights on one particular conclusion, because contrary to general opinion, Noctis isn't actually an idiot.
But he waits, grimacing briefly when Ignis uncharacteristically takes a too-sharp turn at a corner, but shrugs as he decides to respond to the question. ] I'll just tell Dad it's all my fault, apologise, and that's the end of it. It's not like Dad will have much time to listen to it, anyway.
[ Because they both know that the King has more important things to do than to be troubled by things like these. As long as Noctis isn't in mortal danger, such a thing warrants, perhaps, a footnote in a report somewhere. Noctis loves his dad, really; but Regis has largely been absent in the general exploits of Noctis' life, so why should this greatly differ? After all, Noctis is safe and unhurt; he imagines the report will be sent through Clarus, and not even directly to his father. But he's used to these things; Noctis knows that matters of state come before things like these, which, really, leaves just one brightly evident conclusion. Ignis is not mad; not really, Noctis will know if he is. Which of course leaves -- ]
Iggy. [ He says carefully at the next red light, watching the way the older man just about lets his demeanor slip, and his hand comes to rest briefly on his thigh, commanding attention. ] Are you jealous?
[ Short of a CAT scan and an overly-involved interrogation, psychoanalyzing Ignis won't yield much in the way of answers, but it will offer Noctis a clue to the secret of his existence. Despot though he makes himself out to be, he's terribly vulnerable to folding over like a deck of cards when Noct presses far enough along the scale of enlightened and he deals with the very petty frustration of a wife who's caught her spouse run through the wiles of strangers. None of those firefighters knew that Noctis had a tendency once in a while for snoring, that he'd crash to sleep in the most inopportune places, that he'd seduced him into keeping a cat illegally on the premises, even though the neighbors must've surely heard a wan meow from time to time when he spilled out onto the loft.
Decoding this look on him will take more than chutzpah and the obstinance of a child, but here Noctis is, hard-pressing a response out of him with a frankly insulting hand on his thigh, excuse him, and Ignis slows the car out of that last veering turn, the wheels screeching back into semi-respectability. He's not going to acknowledge that palm. He's not even going to look at it, because then Noct will look at him, through him, and this facade of nonplussed blankness on his face will be ruined beyond repair. ]
I don't see how that's relevant to anything.
[ Abducting his fingers for the rest of the ride is a very twitchy, nettled and horribly obvious about that frustration preying on his back. Smart-assed comments take priority to the rest of this grandstanding affair where he flaunts his ability not to make them both victims of vehicular homicide while simultaneously ignoring the question. It's only when they're pulling in to the parking lot that he's recovered enough of his common sense to resign himself to how absurdly silly he's been, when Noctis's behavior toward that whole parade of men hardly merits a firing squad. Too much uptightness will only draw Noctis away, so his reply's a brief footnote, yanking the key out of the vise-grip of the ignition, pocketing it. ]
... Yes, actually. I am. I humor myself that it's reasonable, but the fact that you'd rouse such attention is natural.
[ Being a prince, and an absurdly pretty one at that, boasting obscenely long eyelashes and eyes that reflect intensity like they reflect rebuttals, apparently. Ignis eases out of the car, the coffee on his sleeve since dried stiff, and plays valet for as long as it'll take his dusty ward to vacate the Regalia and make headway toward his apartment. ]
[ There are a lot of things that Noctis learns about Ignis, even if the man never lets on. He's learned how to read the degree of his emotion by just how deliberately bland his mask is -- it's as if the man wields neutrality as both a shield and a middle finger to whomever is looking for a rise out of him. It takes time and one hell of a lot of effort, but Noctis can be patient when he decides to apply himself -- and where Ignis is concerned, he applies himself very well.
He observes just how much effort Ignis puts into keeping that one up all throughout the drive home -- as if Noctis' hand on his thigh didn't bother him (it probably does, he's half-sure of it), and he's quietly absorbing Ignis' comment when they finally reach his apartment and Ignis kills the engine like it's personally insulted him. What he says is something unexpected, honest but somehow just this side of self-deprecating, and Noctis says nothing when he makes headway to his apartment, leaving Ignis to play valet.
The prince is thoughtful all the way up, and he leaves the door unlocked for Ignis as he cleans up, dumping the dusty clothes into the laundry hamper and stepping in for a quick shower. He might not have discovered ghosts down the mine shaft, but he's learned one thing this evening: Ignis is actually capable of getting jealous, and he almost definitely crushed a can with coffee in it because of that. It's endearing, and when he emerges from the shower ten minutes later in a shirt, shorts and a towel drying off his hair, he speaks up to the apartment in general, currently unclear of his testy lover's whereabouts. ]
You should get changed. [ He says mildly. After that, Noctis can start to make it up to him. George blinks sleepily at him from her spot on the couch, and he trots over to scratch behind her ears. ] And then we gotta talk.
[ A lot of it's just Ignis's pride at work: worry hijacked him initially over the oxygen masks that Noct and Prompto didn't need, the initial havoc that came parceled out bringing the prince up from the mine shaft. Eventually, though, concern gave way to this brooding quiet that overtakes him as he locks the car and makes headway from the foyer to the elevator to Noctis's apartment. Inside the inner sanctum, George endures a staring contest with him for ten seconds before laying her head down, and he retrieves the dinner he'd left to cool, busying himself with the plates and utensils.
When Noct returns, racy in all the usual post-shower ways (clean and damp and smelling faintly of citrus) to pet the cat, Ignis pulls up his sleeve some, frowning. ]
I'll see to that, then. If you wouldn't mind, I'll use the shower. You're welcome to eat in the meantime. Dinner's on the table.
[ Meanwhile, he's got to scrub off the smell of coffee and slight mortification, see, as Ignis traipses off to plunder through his side of the dresser for clothes and take his own sweet time luxuriating in the bathroom, if a five-minute jaunt under the shower head counts for an exorbitant pleasure. Then he's changing into his spare clothes, all of which are downed in the hamper as he makes his way back to the living room, a towel resting nice and easy over his shoulders, glasses slightly askew as he reaches up to adjust the frames. ]
[ They say good things come to those who wait. Noctis is half-certain they don't specifically mean waiting for your man to come out of the bathroom so you can talk about -- whatever that was that happened just now. Noctis isn't even that good at talking, preferring to deal in subtleties and exceptions, easily flustered and embarrassed despite a coolly reticent outer shell.
He doesn't help himself to the dinner that's been so painstakingly reheated; it doesn't feel right to eat without him when Noctis realizes that dinner was what Ignis had possibly been making before he made the distress (somewhat) call to him. He waits, letting George curl on his lap until he hears the shower door slide open, near-silent footfalls padding out of the bathroom. If Noctis is racy, then Ignis must ultimately be sinful, fresh from the shower with a towel around broad shoulders, effortlessly arresting as he adjusts the glasses on his nose.
Gently letting George off his lap, he steps towards him, reaching to grasp both ends of the towel to pull him closer. It's a good trick, he thinks; he'll have to make a habit out of this. First things first, however: ]
Thanks for coming to get us. [ Noctis says after a moment, looking up at him. Despite the fraying threads of Ignis' irritation, he did, after all, call the fire department, and stood by to make sure they were all right. ] You should look into forgiving innocent coffee cans. They didn't deserve your wrath.
[ If Noctis didn't decide to propel himself off the building with Prompto in tow like a parachutist with a penchant for throwing caution and safety to the wind, he wouldn't have to explain himself right now. He's had the entire duration of the shower to mope over it; what comes now is either coughing up his culpability, or burying it so far in the ground it calcifies. Dread isn't being manufactured in him at a breakneck pace, but he's no less hesitant stopping just before Noctis.
Reeled into him with a tug of the towel, Ignis shrugs, the movement more placid than cross, even when he'd much rather melt into the floor and become one with the void at the moment. ]
For your information, it was a single coffee can, and it was more of a casualty than an intentional target. [ Stiffly (awkwardly), Ignis clears his throat, terse enough to cool his head and cool his nerves despite being wracked by chagrin, deeply, deeply flustered the longer he remains in this pseudo-embrace. ] ... You're welcome. I'd briefly considered consigning you to your fate, but I couldn't go so far to put Prompto's life in risk.
[ Ice-cold, even if that's just a pretense.
Dinner's gone by uneaten. Mildly, Ignis's gaze lingers some of the table, plates untouched, and then he gets over his petty grievances to press an obliging hand against Noctis's wrist, checking for the telltale sign of bruising contusions. There'd been plenty of that in the beginning when the prince and his companion were first hauled up and it'd been deemed unnecessary to take them to the hospital, but it doesn't stop him from probing what he can discern of Noct for any bodily wounds. ]
How are you faring? Dizzy or nauseous? I know the firefighters deemed you well enough, but did you sustain any injuries?
[ Ignis' subsequent concern for his well-being puts such a sweet lie to his frosty assertion that Noctis finds it difficult to take offense -- to love is to be rendered transparent, and Ignis is as opaque as colorless glass, brittle in the wake of accidental confessions and a prince that seems to have chosen today to display a talent for perceptiveness that is anything but nascent.
His beloved chamberlain bears his embrace with all the tersely dignified air of one about to face down a firing squad, and while Noctis has no intentions of letting him out of his hold, he cannot help but be impossibly fond as he registers those questions, allows his wrist to be examined. The mine shaft wasn't too bad; he's sustained his fair share of bruises trying to warp up and out, but the unexpectedly slippery smooth surface had put paid to that particular course of action after the fifth, sixth attempt. Prompto, however, had not taken kindly to that failure -- who knew he had such a thing about small and enclosed spaces? ]
Nah, I'm good. Bruises here and there, but I'll live. [ Namely on his ass, a large, ugly bruise forming on the back of his elbow, and a scattering of little ones he'd taken on the way down; but it's nothing he can't handle. Entirely unbothered, he moves to slip his wrist only to grab a hold of Ignis' hand, magnanimously freeing Ignis from the towel hold and leading him towards the dinner table. Cold Ignis might be in his secret mortification, his defenses so painstakingly cultivated, but frost does nothing to dispel the warmth that pulses in his chest. How can he think that Noctis will have eyes on another when he is all he sees?
He squeezes his hand, eyes ahead and face conveniently turned towards the food, not him. It's now, here, that he speaks up quickly. ] I'd choose you every time. Not just today. [ Then, more deliberately. ] So are we gonna eat, or what? I'm starving.
[ Getting smoked out like this isn't entirely dissimilar from facing down a firing squad, actually. He's still riddled with slow-burning holes where emotion shines through, thumb pressing a soft indent against the divot of one bruise higher up on Noctis's forearm and deeply frowning. There's still the casings of jealousy in him, even after Noctis took his tumble, and it's all insanely foolish that he's upset over something so benign when Noct's been injured, however ill-conceived.
Then the prince curls his fingers over him, and the reaction's immediate, like the sun blinking into focus, warm and unadulterated, and he makes a strange noise, confusion wound up in him like the strings of a kite while Noctis plays the passerby and guides him back down from his lofty state of passivity.
There was never getting anything past him. The drop to Ignis's shoulders is brief, but telling, every empathetic bone in his body like he's been throughly struck. ]
Waiting for me may have been the height of foolishness, Noct. [ Both for dinner and down a mine shaft with his phone sending out last-minute distress signals. Ignis, for all of his prim and dour concern, squeezes his hand back. Led to the table, he stands at attention, waiting for Noctis to break the handhold first, since he's an overly sentimental sap and all, however subdued. ] It's barramundi fillet, if you were wondering.
[ One of Noct's favorites, even if he doesn't entirely deserve it after the near-cardiac arrest he gave his put-upon adviser. ]
[ Because Ignis will come through, every single time. Because to Noctis, he is an absolute -- immovable and unwavering, because if he had to do it all over again, his final calls would still only have been to Ignis. He feels him squeeze his hand in response, and he smiles to himself -- there is nothing more beautiful than an Ignis with less than optimal control over his emotions, holes where the light shines through. How exquisite, that Ignis is as susceptible to emotions as either and every one of them.
He releases him with a soft, brief kiss to the mouth, seating himself beside where he intends Ignis to settle in, and deals out the plates and utensils, viewing the cooling barramundi with untempered delight before helping himself. And, as a gesture of goodwill and apology, apportioning the first share to Ignis himself. The bruises are swiftly forgotten, Noctis taking some for himself and blithely avoiding the vegetables, digging into it with great enthusiasm. After all, he hasn't had anything to eat since noon, a disaster of his own making. ]
You know, one day I could go and catch one, then you won't have to go through the hassle of ordering it. [ Or does Ignis buy it from the market? He's not too clear on the details. ]
[ Over-reliance might end up being Noct's terrible undoing someday; he won't always be around to fuss and cosset and, on rare occasion, break fine form and annihilate coffee cans with the wrath of a scorned (no, jilted, as immature as they come) lover jealous to no end. Peevish to the bones, evenβ but dependence isn't without fickle reciprocity. There's no negotiating away the small happiness of a kiss, even when Noctis takes to appropriating cutlery for his own nefarious means, like chopping the vegetables aside and mincing away at the fish.
Ignis's hand makes a firm clasp for the fork, parceling out a small portion for himself, but doesn't dare the bite at first. A slow inhale, then slower still: until Noctis speaks, he doesn't actually raise the utensil, breathing like he's waiting for a sounder rebuke, maybe a good defamation for being a vulture who can't help encircling its quarry (whether Noctis, who could throw him clean through the wall, actually qualifies as prey is grounds for later discussion). ]
I'd fancy that a fair bit, actually. Watching you out on the jetty, rod in hand, toting your prowess for all the local fishermen to see. You might end up stealing their wives away.
[ And he'd never win, contending with the likes of women who know how to keep a man anchored even when tied to the sea; for all of his chicanery, Ignis still hasn't figured out how to keep Noctis moored and not flinging himself down mine shafts on the mere vestiges of pretense alone. ]
Though that might end up being a double-edged blade, what with the competition I'll have to finagle my way through.
[ First firemen, then fishermen wives, then ocean life, most likely, assuming the local school of herrings taking a liking to the good and kind prince, which isn't so difficult a feat to accomplish. His smile's grim, but persevering, when he finally takes the first bite of barramundi. ]
Why would I wanna seduce fishermen's wives when you're the only one I want?
[ Noctis asks sensibly, because Ignis is nothing if not adorable when he's busy spiraling in his jealousy. There is no rebuke that comes, none that bears accusation when Noctis only wants to draw close, mooring himself to him until the next harebrained exploit comes along. Ghosts in an abandoned prison block, probably, and then Noctis will hurtle himself into it wildly with his best friend (similarly motivated to idiocy), and likely Ignis and a bemused Gladio in tow.
There are no fishermen's wives or stray schools of herrings to take fancy too, much less mystical mermaids out to cast their nets on a prince's attentions -- there is none to be gained when most of it is concentrated on his currently peevish lover and guardian like the world's most romantic kind of tunnel vision only not really. But still.
He's digging into the barramundi with significantly more aplomb, and it's with his mouth full that he regards Ignis' grim-smiley-faced endurance of a particularly delicious meal. ] Do you think you won't beat out all the competition hands down? If there even is competition?
[ They draw the eye and lure attention, and Noct's never needed more than that savage ruthlessness about his eyes, a deep blue that simmers along beneath his too-long lashes. He's heartbreakingly pretty, still growing into the pains of adulthood like the pains of logic and reason, or how to learn the healing process of impacted bruises after a stint down in a mine shaft. Stuffed cheeks have never looked so attractive; he has to catch himself before telling Noct not to talk with his mouth full, tamping down on maternal tendencies to fuss and pry.
Ignis carves apart the content of his plate, even when there aren't any pin bones to sort through, gutting the fish like he's gutting the conversation. But something in his shoulders lighten, and when he rests the fork down, three-fourths of the fish gone down the throat, his eyes are clear. ]
I'm scarcely without weakness, Noct. A man can worry.
[ And his kind of concern is self-involved, replacing the facility of common sense with the sort of neuroticism eating men with everything to lose the best. Reprising his role as a woebegone babysitter for the umpteenth time, he tucks up the frames of his glasses, setting the utensil down. ]
I'm glad you're alright, all the same. My own anxieties aside, your father might go into cardiac arrest if you'd injured yourself gravely.
[ And no amount of smiley posturing or ingenuity would be able to save his own hide from divine retribution then. ]
Noctis blinks, torn between amused and confused -- he looks good, he's pretty sure of it, but looking good is one thing, knowing how to pick up really hot individuals is another thing entirely, and while Noctis doesn't suffer from crippling self-esteem issues, he can acknowledge that somehow managing to snag his incredibly gorgeous, remarkably clever, and unmistakably talented chamberlain has been something of a fluke. Much like witnessing double, or triple rainbows in the sky all at once, and it's never replicated again. Or maybe it does, a long way down the line.
Ignis is that near-miracle. With his position, with his talent and his looks, he can get anyone he wants; and yet here he is, savaging his fish and devouring it as if it's done him some sort of personal wrong. Noctis pauses at the mention of his father, good humor erased in a heartbeat. It's a sensitive subject, dad and any sort of illness; it's something Noctis hates thinking about, and something, he's sure, Ignis is very much aware of.
After all, had they not once fought over something like that before? ]
He'll be fine. [ Words that might be considered dismissive by others who aren't Ignis, others who have not been privy to Noctis' moods, his dread that one day soon, Regis will be taken from him. It'll be awhile yet, he hopes. Even so.
He recovers, finishing up his fish as he regards his woebegone babysitter, reaching out to touch his cheek. The gesture is soft, almost tender. ] What is your weakness? You never said.
[ Silly boy. Cook up enough hokey pretenses and he can serve it with another fillet, carve up his own intent to sear-fry from now until the end of time. Sometimes the most radical thing to do when facing down a crisis is nothing at all, while this melodrama of his own making plays out, reeling like a roll of film. Jealousy's just pulp fiction for the soul, irrational to no end, and twice as selfish for it.
Even subjected to all of this confidence-breaking irreverence, Ignis folds. Perhaps worst of all, he wants to foldβ subjecting himself to the careful sprawl of Noctis's fingers, closing around him like they close around his heart. Contemptibly, he leans into his palm, and the soft pressure's just an extension of the rest of Noctis, quiet and modest and so inversely moved to emotional outbursts.
And Ignis remains beholden to him, caving easily to the prince and his erroneous appeals, like he wouldn't love him just as much if he'd championed his affections with someone else. Any lifetime where Noct goes off and finds happiness is a good one, even if the situation isn't at all dire and he's got no retort but the one that humors his question, tender as his grip on him. ]
Only you. [ Most terrifying is that resolution, when he cuts the bullshit and the stiff-shouldered replies and gives in to the suggestion of heat, eyes closed, plate cleaned off, the fan whirring distantly over their heads. ] It would always be you. I don't think you know the lengths I'd go to ensure your wellbeing. I'd give up a good deal to keep you safe.
[ And more selfishly, claiming dominion of his love, but in his defense, he's a rather contemptible man already, well and truly overcome, but Noctis knows that, reigns with a steel vice-grip over him, feebleminded arguments aside. ]
So no, I can't afford to be patient when I'm positively green with envy. Though, I am a touch less exasperated than I'd have you believe.
[ Here is my heart, Ignis seems to say, when he leans over and gives of himself, making Noctis' breath catch, do as you wish with it. He doesn't look away from the intense green of his eyes when he confesses, at least not at first, before a sense of bashfulness makes him turn away, ears pink with the sentiment so bluntly heard and proclaimed. Ignis cannot be patient when he's envious, when Noctis is his only weakness and Ignis tells him how much he would give up for his sake.
He doesn't need him to do that, not when he's here in his hold, looking at him like he's the only person that matters. Noctis might reign in his heart, but Ignis holds similar sway in his own, and while he might not be nearly as articulate as Ignis, smooth and sleek and with a vocabulary that can enrage and titillate in equal measure, it's no less honest. ]
I love you. [ He says bluntly, because it's true, because it's all that he has that is truly his own, and not of the crown. It's terrifying, what he feels for him, all that rests on Ignis' shoulders. His love, his want, how he sees no one else but him, which would surely spell disaster if Ignis is ever gone from his side. ] Only you.
[ The shine and shimmer of others flitting about Noctis, drawn to his name, his position, are ultimately inconsequential -- they see nothing beyond the surface, and Ignis, Ignis has been there for the best and worst of him, and yet he's still here, giving him all that he has to offer anyway; so how can he possibly have eyes for any other? Ignis, his weakness, so perhaps it's fitting that he becomes his chamberlain's own, too -- mutually assured destruction of a sort, except it wouldn't come to that, he hopes. He leans over to kiss him, lips soft, tentative against his, and he tastes the flavor of the fish, even more delicious from his lips. ]
[ He's out of his element, like a fish out of water; he's only got so much slipperiness to his artifice until Noctis torches that so easily, comes forward and then away, away, momentarily shy. What's really eating at Ignis is that lit match Noct's apparently set to his insides with that phone call, torching him into something fervid and prone to terrible outbursts like these. Ignis the better intellectual between the two of them when he's this emotionally-motivated.
The answer's slow to come, but no less molten, when their mouths span in a kiss, and Noct's driving his inhibitions up a wall. He wasn't really cut out for mourning the possible death of his relationship, so he's no less suave championing it, when he retracts his head just so and reaches up to smudge away at the corner of his mouth. ]
That isn't very wise, admittedly.
[ Loving such a horrid man like him will do Noct no good later, when he outgrows his chamberlain for someone who won't crumple coffee cans to bits at the sight of temptation, but that's how it goes. Noctis never does what's best for himself, impulsive and emphatic and too kind for his own good. A man after Ignis's own heart.
Ignis's expression lifts out of obscurity with that smile on him. In the interim, his fingers drop to the table, drumming and rueful, caving into fitfulness. ]
I do love you the most. More than anything or anyone else. [ Dearly, then worse still, spoiling him and entertaining stunts like ill-advised forays into mine shafts. ] I suspect that's half of the problem.
[ If only the curse of it hadn't spread to the extent of nearly ruining their relationship, throwing a conniption fit over something that isn't there. It's not that he doesn't trust Noct, but he doesn't have much faith for those around himβ and himself, more often than not. Even Ignis can't predict the extent of his own vengeance when fully realized, insofar as Noctis is personally concerned. All that collateral damage wrought for the sake of one person. It's a terrifying thought.
From right underneath their noses comes the retrieval of his plate, whisked away to the sink to endure the duress of dish soap and a scrubber. He can scrounge up enough belief that Noctis can bring up his own plate when he's well and ready; can't keep treating him like a child, even if he insists on acting like one from time to time (so he isn't really over Noct's death-defying fall this evening, not at all). ]
That's all I'll berate you for today. You're welcome to tend to other things as soon as you've finished supper.
[ No, Ignis is definitely not over it, because with the assuagement of Noctis' love comes the irritation that's been simmering underneath the surface, and Ignis is primly leaving him to his own devices, taking his angst out on the innocent plate. ]
What's the other half of the problem?
[ Noctis asks, ever curious as he polishes up his food and approaches him. Censure over for tonight, it's Noctis' turn to keep pushing the envelope, wanting to dig into just how Ignis is feeling, to smooth over the ragged spots because this is how he's always been, because despite his willful ways he still desires to please, and in this case, he wants to please Ignis. And it definitely won't do to have him in a snit when Noctis is still thrumming from his victorious high off an exciting adventure in a mine shaft. The adrenaline is slow to dissipate, and he steps in closer than he should when his boyfriend/guardian/companion/confidant/adviser/chamberlain is still feeling quite poorly from the events of the evening. ]
I think wise is overrated.
[ He says archly, because it's just like Ignis to overthink and work himself into a rightful snit, right? ] You know, you could stand to be a dumbass once in awhile. Well, dumbass in a good way, not in a jerk way. Less thinking, more doing.
[ No, he's not over it. He's hemorrhaging at his own values, maddeningly picking them apart, trying to keep up an anger that's only partially immersed him. The rest of him is profiled against the sink and the clutter of tableware, very abrasive with the cleaning brush and scrubber, but gentler with the dishes to avoid scratches. There's the dishwasher and the convenience found in tossing the whole wreck on the racks and calling it a day, but he's down for some self-masochism tonight, which just entails scrubbing the dishes until he's scoured himself into the sort of stupor that causes young men to fling themselves down mine shafts, or smashing his own fingers to bits from the exertion. Whatever comes first. ]
I feel like a good one already.
[ No man is perfect. Anything can be ascribed values and logic, but they're all relative to the matter. Ignis does what he must, which in most cases, is only what he can. Carefully setting the platter he's currently working on, Ignis takes the dish he's handed, which he also sets down in favor of subjecting Noct to an open rupture of a kiss, his soapy hands leaving damp prints around the prince's forearms when Ignis executes the storming mood in him, forsakes it outright.
Afterwards, the synchronism between his words and his behavior's broken, both prim and heavily panting when leaning back, eyes daring censure. ]
How I absolutely wouldn't be able to fare well without you, if you were gone. That's the other half of it. The least you could do is bring me with you the next time you decide to be so incredibly reckless.
[ So he can be selfish. So he can be every bit as selfish as Noctis under the right circumstances. ]
[ Of the many half-baked, ludicrous answers that Noctis had been entertaining in his head -- each and every one so pointedly not Ignis that it had been a futile endeavor to even consider it -- he hadn't been expecting that.
Which is stupid, because this is such a fundamental, powerful part of Ignis; an immense, obvious answer hiding in plain sight. He opens up to the kiss when Ignis grips him, a testament to his love for him that he doesn't ask why, only simply opens up and presses his tongue back to his, stepping into his circle as he meets him halfway, laving at the rupture of his emotion, raw and potent and overwhelming.
Ignis is a storm, rough and fierce and passionate, the truth of his words rendering Noctis speechless for a moment, taken aback. Of course. Of course. Ignis jealousy of the firefighters, while a big part of it, had not been the main part. It goes deeper than that, right to the day they had first met and Ignis had been his only friend. His oldest, only friend until Prompto came alone, and even if Ignis has Noctis' heart, some things don't die easily.
Not that Noctis can't commiserate, if his blistering opinion of Ignis' past perceived fancies is any indication. Noctis, who quietly hates when something takes Ignis away from him, understands with full clarity. There is no censure to be dispensed when the kiss ends, and Noctis looks hazy for a moment, just a moment, licking his lips as if chasing the warmth of his kiss, wanting it to have lasted just a little longer. ]
I'm sorry. [ He says at last, apology given freely in the face of Ignis' truth, laid out before him, plain and simple, and he closes the distance between them, daubs of water on his forearms where Ignis' hold had been. ] You know I never want to be without you. [ His love, his light; the idea of Ignis languishing without him makes his heart ache, and when he kisses him back again, it's infinitely more gentle. ]
I'll take you with me the next time we go ghost hunting in an abandoned mine shaft. Or anywhere else. [ Noctis murmurs against his lips, his arm creeping to curl around his waist. ] Does this mean you want us to be reckless together?
[ Because the truth's ridiculous, when pettiness itself is one great big pretense for the longing that roils and roils in him. He's just marking time once Noct's drawn back at last, mystified. All he needs to do is just look at Ignis in earnest to see how jealousy devours him. Venting his frustrations on the dishes with punishing severity is brainless logic; ceramic can only take so much pressure before it'll crack, just like him, snapping out retorts that brutalize the silence that follows in its wake. He's just asking for the slap that inexplicably doesn't come seeking him out when Noctis's fingers cinch around him instead, angled just shy of his belt.
Brandishing all the discontent a jilted lover can possess with a sudsy sponge in one hand, Ignis sighs, a quiet echo against his ribs. ]
Don't apologize, Noct. I was far too rash.
[ Should've just left Ignis to stew over coffee stains once he'd chewed him out then make a bid at penitence. But it's that painful susceptibility to competition in him (as if he'd love Noctis any less, even with another man in the arrangement) that's riling its head now. The fear of inadequacy, rearing to bite. The ensuing kiss is all the more visceral for it, a soft contrast to his envy, and all the tension of the moment ruptures before gentleness.
Dealt with this sleight of hand, Ignis returns the gesture in kind, after, leaning so his forehead rests on his shoulder, breathing taking up a hazy shape where the clean lines of Noctis's throat are exposed. ]
If you wouldn't terribly mind, I'd want to be with you the whole way through, harebrained scheme or none. [ Reckless or not, as long as he can walk in the steps of a king-to-be predisposed to courting his own destruction, anyhow. ] Though I'll settle for causing mayhem and anarchy by your side afterwards, if worse comes to worst. Whatever you set your sights upon.
[ Then they'll get jailed and have to rely on the likes of Gladio to bail them out of some cramped precinct cell, and thereafter never hear the end of it. ]
All I ask for is your happiness.
[ Leave him to fuss and tie himself into knots over Noct's safety in the meantime. Twenty-two years of bad habit won't resolve itself on just his prince's horribly enlivening say-so. ]
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Prompto is the first to freak, but cooler heads (read: Noctis) prevail, and instead of doing the sensible thing, which will be to dial emergency services (most notably the fire rescue department, tasked with firefighting, rescuing cats from all manner of trees, and currently, errant princes and their retainers from abandoned mine shafts in Buttfuck Nowhere), he calls Ignis. He supposes he'd probably call Ignis even if he was trapped on an island and was afforded only one phone call, because Noctis is prepared to swear that Ignis has the tracking skills of a bloodhound, probably has his phone tagged to within one square meter of any given area (not unlike a chip on a pet), and possesses an over-abundance of common sense that Noctis has largely come to depend on.
In short: the prince's unrelenting, unapologetic codependence on the royal chamberlain should probably be reviewed for the sake of the latter's mental health. Attempts to mitigate the matter should probably be made, even though all attempts will be blithely ignored by aforementioned prince. Prompto shares this particular view to a certain extent, if the look he gives him when he calls Ignis is any indication (dude! 911's right there!), but Noctis has all the unshakeable faith of a mountain in Ignis, and it seems like a lifetime before the firemen arrive.
Tall, broad and burly, the lot of them seem to have stepped out from the pages of Firefighters Weekly, and Noctis and Prompto were rescued in under five minutes, pulled up and none the worse for wear. All's well that ends well, right? Noctis might be the prince -- and he might only have eyes for none other than his currently irate adviser glaring daggers at him from practically a yard away, with Gladio very cleverly keeping to himself (which is saying something when the man is as bulky and imposing as they come) -- but it doesn't mean that he doesn't notice just how handsome the firemen are.
Lookers, the lot of them, like they'd just rushed over from a calendar photoshoot or something. And it doesn't hurt that they're milling around him, too. Prompto's slid off somewhere in the span of these couple of minutes, and Noctis is grateful enough to take some time to thank them -- never let it be said that the crown prince lacks manners terribly, even if something in the pit of his stomach very helpfully reminds him that he's going to be in deep trouble with Ignis later.
It takes him up until Ignis' sudden ominous presence, his hand clamped onto his shoulder for Noctis to notice that the men might possibly be flirting with him, and the prince's gratitude and friendliness might also be misconstrued as reciprocation of a strange sort. It's tempting to be invited for drinks at the station, because maybe now Ignis will see him as an older, more mature person (nevermind that he and Prompto needed to be rescued because the thought jumping down a mine shaft at night would be a great idea). But a niggling feeling remains; Ignis smells like coffee and there hints of coffee stains on those pristine cuffs, and come to think of it, he did hear a curious sound of a can being crushed...
... All the same, he knows that Ignis is right, and as much as he doesn't like to be called away, Ignis leaves him the dignity of staying by his side instead of doing the physical herding, a silent request for cooperation instead of prying it from him, and Noctis finds himself more amenable to direction. He leans closer to Ignis just as instinctively, the way he always orients himself towards him when he's close, like Ignis is his true north and Noctis can do nothing but obey.
True north, in every way that counts. So while Noctis is tempted, he's shit at drinking and judging from the tension in Ignis' shoulders, this is a situation better resolved by Noctis not pushing his damn luck. He presses closer to Ignis, a silent capitulation to his adviser's particular gambit (not that it'll alleviate the anger he feels practically emanating from him), gives them polite smiles and declines, because prince or not he's still a minor, and says his thanks before nodding at Ignis, and he's the one that impulsively takes his adviser's hand, making their way to where the Regalia is parked.
Prompto and Gladio seem to have disappeared from where Noctis had earlier spotted them -- and he wonders if it's because Ignis looks so eerily calm that the other two would much rather take their chances with a pack of enraged Coeurls than be in Ignis' immediate vicinity.
Noctis is contemplating that briefly, himself. But Ignis did just pull off an impressive search and rescue expedition and successfully extracted them in under half an hour, and the prince cannot deny being just a little bit turned on by that -- even if that's possibly the last thing on Ignis' mind right now. Stupid decisions involving mine shafts don't often lend themselves to meaningful foreplay. Ah, he'll make it up to him. ]
Thanks, Iggy. [ He chooses to break the silence. Any longer, and there'd be frost in his ears or something. ] You got them here really quick.
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But then Noct shimmies close and renounces temptation, and ever the pragmatic, Ignis doesn't begrudge him his hand as he's led away from the scene of the crime. May the depth of his pathos be damned and sent to the lowest circle of hell for being furtively proud that Noct readily complied without batting an eye. It does nothing to combat the warmongering exasperation in him, still out for blood, but it does harsh the buzz of his anger to something slower, more susceptible to persuasion. Less of a spiracorn (or coeurl) rampage, and more so how recovering from anaphylactic shock might go down, the feeling in his fingers parceled back in increments with Noctis's soft grip over him, holding him together.
Only once they're before the car is he faced with the dilemma of letting Noct's hand go to fish out the car keys or revealing he's been toting a crushed coffee can around in his other hand like a bloody moron. Naturally, he chooses a good compromise, peeling away to shuck the can into the nearest wastebasket and allowing brashness to externalize itself in him. He's fairly earned the right to be upset, near despotic around Gladio and withholding the worst of his temper for Prompto's sake. Good thing both of them have gotten the hint and dipped as soon as humanly possible. ]
Oh, no need to thank me prematurely. We're not remotely through yet.
[ His smile's so frighteningly grim when he unlocks the car, an expression that rolls off the rest of his tightly-wound frame in turbulent waves. He's too set in his ways to even consider the notion of Noctis running for the hills upon opening the car door in expectation he'll resign himself to his fate and coming around to the driver's seat to ease inside. Give him a moment and he's going through the normal functions, buckling his seatbelt, easing the key into the ignition with deathly seriousness, offering Noctis more than enough time to send his last prayers to the Astrals heavenward.
Then, only then, does he allow the engine to run sleek, hands on the steering wheel, easing out of the parking lot. He doesn't continue his train of thought for a while, practically basking in the silence, though every ounce of his backlash is horrifically apparent with his cuffs reeking of Ebony and his fingers slippery on the steering wheel, not enough grace applied when they hit the road, heading back for Noctis's apartment. Sternness becomes him, though the facetiousness in the next question he poses is too thick to even begin deciphering. ]
Why don't we start from the top? While I contemplate how to break the news best to your father, you can tell what in the blazes possessed you to fling yourself down a mine shaft with a civilian in tow? [ Prompto, now relegated to a mere liability. Sad life. ] Given your stellar wit, I'm sure you should be able to think of an adequate excuse.
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[ Princes, it seems, come equipped with a profound lack of shame and urgency in answering questions meant to guilt-trip and chastise, instead preferring to craft some of their own, entirely apropos of nothing where the thread of conversation is concerned and wholly relevant where olfactory sensibilities come into play. Start from the top, indeed.
Also ouch, Prompto. Noctis instinctively knows the extent of Ignis' anger and spite -- for some reason, his best friend always tends to bear the brunt of it whenever Ignis is in the mood for bloodshed.
Ignis is a whole new level of furious, Noctis knows. He knows that particular murderous line of tension that locks those shoulders, the tighter-than-usual grip on the steering wheel, and the fact that Ignis is driving like Prompto on a good day, which is saying a lot where the both of them are concerned. And speaking of Prompto, a part of him is almost wistful -- he's sure Gladio isn't currently giving him a good reaming for the awful decision to leap into a mineshaft with nothing more than sheer confidence to carry the day. Although if Gladio is giving Prompto a reaming of an entirely different sort, Noctis very pointedly doesn't need to know.
But all the same. He's sure Prompto's having one hell of a better time than Noctis is right now, having spent the past few minutes in a silence so heavily pregnant with tension it would be having octuplets in the backseat of the Regalia right about now. As it stands, the prince is pretty sure Ignis hadn't been contemplating about how to break the news to Regis -- surely such a thing wouldn't warrant such a profoundly murderous aura. He's relating news of Noctis'
stupidityexploits to the king, not gearing up to kill a superhero (although at this point Noctis wouldn't dismiss the latter speculation so cavalierly).He stares at his cuffs instead of that handsome face that looks like it could have been carved from granite, picking up on the coffee stains that had somehow mysteriously found their way on it. Ignis had always been a frustratingly impeccable dresser; transgressions like these are unforgivable, and yet, here they are. ]
There's coffee on your shirt cuffs.
[ Hell, he's already in trouble, right? ]
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Evading the question, are we? [ No use stumbling past that minor pitfall when he can just take a leaf out of Noctis's book and hurl himself into it. Briefly, Ignis is taken aback; it's there in his eyes, the very visceral discomfort of being called out, but then he's staring very adamantly at the windshield, flipping on the headlights from dim to something keener for something to do. One diversionary tactic for another. ] It's as you can plainly see. Spilled a tad on my sleeves. There's no helping it now.
[ Just like crushing that can barehanded, it's an inevitability. Couldn't be avoided. Noct's currently skewering him with his gaze, lit devastatingly beautiful in profile, but even that won't disabuse Ignis of his laser-precise stare at the traffic light, red for the past thirty seconds with no other cars in the immediate vicinity. The smell's crushing in the car for some goddamned reason, like he took a carafe of iced mocha and poured it all over the car's upholstery, and Ignis's fingers perceptibly tighten over the wheel. Outside, the wind's whistling a thin stream, the tires making an uncomfortable squelch whenever he zooms into a flat standstill, takes too sharp of a turn so that the asphalt screams with each abrupt stop. ]
Does that bother you more than coming up with a way to save face? I'm hardly the one that'll be censured later.
[ That's a lie, or half of one; at least some of the blame will defect to him, by virtue of being Noctis's chamberlain and impromptu babysitter, but that's the farthest thing from relevant at the moment. They're not seven minutes away from the prince's apartment, but the minutes tick on like an inconsolable burden, condensing with the seconds, trapping him in a ploy of his own making. Upon closer inspection, Ignis isn't all that irate, only brimming with the sort of frustration that fills closed spaces like the interior of a car insatiably, digging uncomfortably at his lungs like Ebony on the sinuses. Noct enthralls many people, a natural consequence of his station, but it wouldn't have taken a single pretense for any of those men to whisk him down to the fire department and thoroughly snare him. A bottle of spirits, maybe two, some easy lack of restraint coupled with that curious look Noctis directed at them, smiling and sweet and entirely unfettered. He trusts Noctis, but not a few strangers that'd pull wisecracks and encircle royalty like wolves to their quarry.
Ignis lets too much slip, riddled clean through with envy. Can't expect him to think straight as far as he can handle a vehicle under extreme duress. ]
Is that all?
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He likes these moments, he likes knowing that the man he loves isn't all that immune to the world around him, or patentedly allergic to emotions of any kind that don't involve frustration or anger. This is new, and this is good. He doesn't fault him for staring dead ahead, as if he could will the traffic light into spilling its secrets if he glared into them hard enough. Diversionary tactics; quite like Ignis when Noctis has him on the ropes, except this time it is purely accidental.
It's got something to do with the coffee, he thinks, and he remembering hearing the crinkle of a can, had dismissed it as a trick of hearing because it didn't seem likely, but now he starts to put two and two together, supposes that he'd been busy imbibing another can of Ebony while waiting for the rescue to come underway -- it had been quite late, after all. But crushing a can doesn't actually come with all the lovely details that should come with soaking in a bath full of coffee, and his brain lights on one particular conclusion, because contrary to general opinion, Noctis isn't actually an idiot.
But he waits, grimacing briefly when Ignis uncharacteristically takes a too-sharp turn at a corner, but shrugs as he decides to respond to the question. ] I'll just tell Dad it's all my fault, apologise, and that's the end of it. It's not like Dad will have much time to listen to it, anyway.
[ Because they both know that the King has more important things to do than to be troubled by things like these. As long as Noctis isn't in mortal danger, such a thing warrants, perhaps, a footnote in a report somewhere. Noctis loves his dad, really; but Regis has largely been absent in the general exploits of Noctis' life, so why should this greatly differ? After all, Noctis is safe and unhurt; he imagines the report will be sent through Clarus, and not even directly to his father. But he's used to these things; Noctis knows that matters of state come before things like these, which, really, leaves just one brightly evident conclusion. Ignis is not mad; not really, Noctis will know if he is. Which of course leaves -- ]
Iggy. [ He says carefully at the next red light, watching the way the older man just about lets his demeanor slip, and his hand comes to rest briefly on his thigh, commanding attention. ] Are you jealous?
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Decoding this look on him will take more than chutzpah and the obstinance of a child, but here Noctis is, hard-pressing a response out of him with a frankly insulting hand on his thigh, excuse him, and Ignis slows the car out of that last veering turn, the wheels screeching back into semi-respectability. He's not going to acknowledge that palm. He's not even going to look at it, because then Noct will look at him, through him, and this facade of nonplussed blankness on his face will be ruined beyond repair. ]
I don't see how that's relevant to anything.
[ Abducting his fingers for the rest of the ride is a very twitchy, nettled and horribly obvious about that frustration preying on his back. Smart-assed comments take priority to the rest of this grandstanding affair where he flaunts his ability not to make them both victims of vehicular homicide while simultaneously ignoring the question. It's only when they're pulling in to the parking lot that he's recovered enough of his common sense to resign himself to how absurdly silly he's been, when Noctis's behavior toward that whole parade of men hardly merits a firing squad. Too much uptightness will only draw Noctis away, so his reply's a brief footnote, yanking the key out of the vise-grip of the ignition, pocketing it. ]
... Yes, actually. I am. I humor myself that it's reasonable, but the fact that you'd rouse such attention is natural.
[ Being a prince, and an absurdly pretty one at that, boasting obscenely long eyelashes and eyes that reflect intensity like they reflect rebuttals, apparently. Ignis eases out of the car, the coffee on his sleeve since dried stiff, and plays valet for as long as it'll take his dusty ward to vacate the Regalia and make headway toward his apartment. ]
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He observes just how much effort Ignis puts into keeping that one up all throughout the drive home -- as if Noctis' hand on his thigh didn't bother him (it probably does, he's half-sure of it), and he's quietly absorbing Ignis' comment when they finally reach his apartment and Ignis kills the engine like it's personally insulted him. What he says is something unexpected, honest but somehow just this side of self-deprecating, and Noctis says nothing when he makes headway to his apartment, leaving Ignis to play valet.
The prince is thoughtful all the way up, and he leaves the door unlocked for Ignis as he cleans up, dumping the dusty clothes into the laundry hamper and stepping in for a quick shower. He might not have discovered ghosts down the mine shaft, but he's learned one thing this evening: Ignis is actually capable of getting jealous, and he almost definitely crushed a can with coffee in it because of that. It's endearing, and when he emerges from the shower ten minutes later in a shirt, shorts and a towel drying off his hair, he speaks up to the apartment in general, currently unclear of his testy lover's whereabouts. ]
You should get changed. [ He says mildly. After that, Noctis can start to make it up to him. George blinks sleepily at him from her spot on the couch, and he trots over to scratch behind her ears. ] And then we gotta talk.
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When Noct returns, racy in all the usual post-shower ways (clean and damp and smelling faintly of citrus) to pet the cat, Ignis pulls up his sleeve some, frowning. ]
I'll see to that, then. If you wouldn't mind, I'll use the shower. You're welcome to eat in the meantime. Dinner's on the table.
[ Meanwhile, he's got to scrub off the smell of coffee and slight mortification, see, as Ignis traipses off to plunder through his side of the dresser for clothes and take his own sweet time luxuriating in the bathroom, if a five-minute jaunt under the shower head counts for an exorbitant pleasure. Then he's changing into his spare clothes, all of which are downed in the hamper as he makes his way back to the living room, a towel resting nice and easy over his shoulders, glasses slightly askew as he reaches up to adjust the frames. ]
What is it?
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He doesn't help himself to the dinner that's been so painstakingly reheated; it doesn't feel right to eat without him when Noctis realizes that dinner was what Ignis had possibly been making before he made the distress (somewhat) call to him. He waits, letting George curl on his lap until he hears the shower door slide open, near-silent footfalls padding out of the bathroom. If Noctis is racy, then Ignis must ultimately be sinful, fresh from the shower with a towel around broad shoulders, effortlessly arresting as he adjusts the glasses on his nose.
Gently letting George off his lap, he steps towards him, reaching to grasp both ends of the towel to pull him closer. It's a good trick, he thinks; he'll have to make a habit out of this. First things first, however: ]
Thanks for coming to get us. [ Noctis says after a moment, looking up at him. Despite the fraying threads of Ignis' irritation, he did, after all, call the fire department, and stood by to make sure they were all right. ] You should look into forgiving innocent coffee cans. They didn't deserve your wrath.
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Reeled into him with a tug of the towel, Ignis shrugs, the movement more placid than cross, even when he'd much rather melt into the floor and become one with the void at the moment. ]
For your information, it was a single coffee can, and it was more of a casualty than an intentional target. [ Stiffly (awkwardly), Ignis clears his throat, terse enough to cool his head and cool his nerves despite being wracked by chagrin, deeply, deeply flustered the longer he remains in this pseudo-embrace. ] ... You're welcome. I'd briefly considered consigning you to your fate, but I couldn't go so far to put Prompto's life in risk.
[ Ice-cold, even if that's just a pretense.
Dinner's gone by uneaten. Mildly, Ignis's gaze lingers some of the table, plates untouched, and then he gets over his petty grievances to press an obliging hand against Noctis's wrist, checking for the telltale sign of bruising contusions. There'd been plenty of that in the beginning when the prince and his companion were first hauled up and it'd been deemed unnecessary to take them to the hospital, but it doesn't stop him from probing what he can discern of Noct for any bodily wounds. ]
How are you faring? Dizzy or nauseous? I know the firefighters deemed you well enough, but did you sustain any injuries?
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His beloved chamberlain bears his embrace with all the tersely dignified air of one about to face down a firing squad, and while Noctis has no intentions of letting him out of his hold, he cannot help but be impossibly fond as he registers those questions, allows his wrist to be examined. The mine shaft wasn't too bad; he's sustained his fair share of bruises trying to warp up and out, but the unexpectedly slippery smooth surface had put paid to that particular course of action after the fifth, sixth attempt. Prompto, however, had not taken kindly to that failure -- who knew he had such a thing about small and enclosed spaces? ]
Nah, I'm good. Bruises here and there, but I'll live. [ Namely on his ass, a large, ugly bruise forming on the back of his elbow, and a scattering of little ones he'd taken on the way down; but it's nothing he can't handle. Entirely unbothered, he moves to slip his wrist only to grab a hold of Ignis' hand, magnanimously freeing Ignis from the towel hold and leading him towards the dinner table. Cold Ignis might be in his secret mortification, his defenses so painstakingly cultivated, but frost does nothing to dispel the warmth that pulses in his chest. How can he think that Noctis will have eyes on another when he is all he sees?
He squeezes his hand, eyes ahead and face conveniently turned towards the food, not him. It's now, here, that he speaks up quickly. ] I'd choose you every time. Not just today. [ Then, more deliberately. ] So are we gonna eat, or what? I'm starving.
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Then the prince curls his fingers over him, and the reaction's immediate, like the sun blinking into focus, warm and unadulterated, and he makes a strange noise, confusion wound up in him like the strings of a kite while Noctis plays the passerby and guides him back down from his lofty state of passivity.
There was never getting anything past him. The drop to Ignis's shoulders is brief, but telling, every empathetic bone in his body like he's been throughly struck. ]
Waiting for me may have been the height of foolishness, Noct. [ Both for dinner and down a mine shaft with his phone sending out last-minute distress signals. Ignis, for all of his prim and dour concern, squeezes his hand back. Led to the table, he stands at attention, waiting for Noctis to break the handhold first, since he's an overly sentimental sap and all, however subdued. ] It's barramundi fillet, if you were wondering.
[ One of Noct's favorites, even if he doesn't entirely deserve it after the near-cardiac arrest he gave his put-upon adviser. ]
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[ Because Ignis will come through, every single time. Because to Noctis, he is an absolute -- immovable and unwavering, because if he had to do it all over again, his final calls would still only have been to Ignis. He feels him squeeze his hand in response, and he smiles to himself -- there is nothing more beautiful than an Ignis with less than optimal control over his emotions, holes where the light shines through. How exquisite, that Ignis is as susceptible to emotions as either and every one of them.
He releases him with a soft, brief kiss to the mouth, seating himself beside where he intends Ignis to settle in, and deals out the plates and utensils, viewing the cooling barramundi with untempered delight before helping himself. And, as a gesture of goodwill and apology, apportioning the first share to Ignis himself. The bruises are swiftly forgotten, Noctis taking some for himself and blithely avoiding the vegetables, digging into it with great enthusiasm. After all, he hasn't had anything to eat since noon, a disaster of his own making. ]
You know, one day I could go and catch one, then you won't have to go through the hassle of ordering it. [ Or does Ignis buy it from the market? He's not too clear on the details. ]
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Ignis's hand makes a firm clasp for the fork, parceling out a small portion for himself, but doesn't dare the bite at first. A slow inhale, then slower still: until Noctis speaks, he doesn't actually raise the utensil, breathing like he's waiting for a sounder rebuke, maybe a good defamation for being a vulture who can't help encircling its quarry (whether Noctis, who could throw him clean through the wall, actually qualifies as prey is grounds for later discussion). ]
I'd fancy that a fair bit, actually. Watching you out on the jetty, rod in hand, toting your prowess for all the local fishermen to see. You might end up stealing their wives away.
[ And he'd never win, contending with the likes of women who know how to keep a man anchored even when tied to the sea; for all of his chicanery, Ignis still hasn't figured out how to keep Noctis moored and not flinging himself down mine shafts on the mere vestiges of pretense alone. ]
Though that might end up being a double-edged blade, what with the competition I'll have to finagle my way through.
[ First firemen, then fishermen wives, then ocean life, most likely, assuming the local school of herrings taking a liking to the good and kind prince, which isn't so difficult a feat to accomplish. His smile's grim, but persevering, when he finally takes the first bite of barramundi. ]
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[ Noctis asks sensibly, because Ignis is nothing if not adorable when he's busy spiraling in his jealousy. There is no rebuke that comes, none that bears accusation when Noctis only wants to draw close, mooring himself to him until the next harebrained exploit comes along. Ghosts in an abandoned prison block, probably, and then Noctis will hurtle himself into it wildly with his best friend (similarly motivated to idiocy), and likely Ignis and a bemused Gladio in tow.
There are no fishermen's wives or stray schools of herrings to take fancy too, much less mystical mermaids out to cast their nets on a prince's attentions -- there is none to be gained when most of it is concentrated on his currently peevish lover and guardian like the world's most romantic kind of tunnel vision only not really. But still.
He's digging into the barramundi with significantly more aplomb, and it's with his mouth full that he regards Ignis' grim-smiley-faced endurance of a particularly delicious meal. ] Do you think you won't beat out all the competition hands down? If there even is competition?
[ Which Noctis doubts. ]
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[ They draw the eye and lure attention, and Noct's never needed more than that savage ruthlessness about his eyes, a deep blue that simmers along beneath his too-long lashes. He's heartbreakingly pretty, still growing into the pains of adulthood like the pains of logic and reason, or how to learn the healing process of impacted bruises after a stint down in a mine shaft. Stuffed cheeks have never looked so attractive; he has to catch himself before telling Noct not to talk with his mouth full, tamping down on maternal tendencies to fuss and pry.
Ignis carves apart the content of his plate, even when there aren't any pin bones to sort through, gutting the fish like he's gutting the conversation. But something in his shoulders lighten, and when he rests the fork down, three-fourths of the fish gone down the throat, his eyes are clear. ]
I'm scarcely without weakness, Noct. A man can worry.
[ And his kind of concern is self-involved, replacing the facility of common sense with the sort of neuroticism eating men with everything to lose the best. Reprising his role as a woebegone babysitter for the umpteenth time, he tucks up the frames of his glasses, setting the utensil down. ]
I'm glad you're alright, all the same. My own anxieties aside, your father might go into cardiac arrest if you'd injured yourself gravely.
[ And no amount of smiley posturing or ingenuity would be able to save his own hide from divine retribution then. ]
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Noctis blinks, torn between amused and confused -- he looks good, he's pretty sure of it, but looking good is one thing, knowing how to pick up really hot individuals is another thing entirely, and while Noctis doesn't suffer from crippling self-esteem issues, he can acknowledge that somehow managing to snag his incredibly gorgeous, remarkably clever, and unmistakably talented chamberlain has been something of a fluke. Much like witnessing double, or triple rainbows in the sky all at once, and it's never replicated again. Or maybe it does, a long way down the line.
Ignis is that near-miracle. With his position, with his talent and his looks, he can get anyone he wants; and yet here he is, savaging his fish and devouring it as if it's done him some sort of personal wrong. Noctis pauses at the mention of his father, good humor erased in a heartbeat. It's a sensitive subject, dad and any sort of illness; it's something Noctis hates thinking about, and something, he's sure, Ignis is very much aware of.
After all, had they not once fought over something like that before? ]
He'll be fine. [ Words that might be considered dismissive by others who aren't Ignis, others who have not been privy to Noctis' moods, his dread that one day soon, Regis will be taken from him. It'll be awhile yet, he hopes. Even so.
He recovers, finishing up his fish as he regards his woebegone babysitter, reaching out to touch his cheek. The gesture is soft, almost tender. ] What is your weakness? You never said.
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Even subjected to all of this confidence-breaking irreverence, Ignis folds. Perhaps worst of all, he wants to foldβ subjecting himself to the careful sprawl of Noctis's fingers, closing around him like they close around his heart. Contemptibly, he leans into his palm, and the soft pressure's just an extension of the rest of Noctis, quiet and modest and so inversely moved to emotional outbursts.
And Ignis remains beholden to him, caving easily to the prince and his erroneous appeals, like he wouldn't love him just as much if he'd championed his affections with someone else. Any lifetime where Noct goes off and finds happiness is a good one, even if the situation isn't at all dire and he's got no retort but the one that humors his question, tender as his grip on him. ]
Only you. [ Most terrifying is that resolution, when he cuts the bullshit and the stiff-shouldered replies and gives in to the suggestion of heat, eyes closed, plate cleaned off, the fan whirring distantly over their heads. ] It would always be you. I don't think you know the lengths I'd go to ensure your wellbeing. I'd give up a good deal to keep you safe.
[ And more selfishly, claiming dominion of his love, but in his defense, he's a rather contemptible man already, well and truly overcome, but Noctis knows that, reigns with a steel vice-grip over him, feebleminded arguments aside. ]
So no, I can't afford to be patient when I'm positively green with envy. Though, I am a touch less exasperated than I'd have you believe.
[ That comes with the territory, naturally. ]
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He doesn't need him to do that, not when he's here in his hold, looking at him like he's the only person that matters. Noctis might reign in his heart, but Ignis holds similar sway in his own, and while he might not be nearly as articulate as Ignis, smooth and sleek and with a vocabulary that can enrage and titillate in equal measure, it's no less honest. ]
I love you. [ He says bluntly, because it's true, because it's all that he has that is truly his own, and not of the crown. It's terrifying, what he feels for him, all that rests on Ignis' shoulders. His love, his want, how he sees no one else but him, which would surely spell disaster if Ignis is ever gone from his side. ] Only you.
[ The shine and shimmer of others flitting about Noctis, drawn to his name, his position, are ultimately inconsequential -- they see nothing beyond the surface, and Ignis, Ignis has been there for the best and worst of him, and yet he's still here, giving him all that he has to offer anyway; so how can he possibly have eyes for any other? Ignis, his weakness, so perhaps it's fitting that he becomes his chamberlain's own, too -- mutually assured destruction of a sort, except it wouldn't come to that, he hopes. He leans over to kiss him, lips soft, tentative against his, and he tastes the flavor of the fish, even more delicious from his lips. ]
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The answer's slow to come, but no less molten, when their mouths span in a kiss, and Noct's driving his inhibitions up a wall. He wasn't really cut out for mourning the possible death of his relationship, so he's no less suave championing it, when he retracts his head just so and reaches up to smudge away at the corner of his mouth. ]
That isn't very wise, admittedly.
[ Loving such a horrid man like him will do Noct no good later, when he outgrows his chamberlain for someone who won't crumple coffee cans to bits at the sight of temptation, but that's how it goes. Noctis never does what's best for himself, impulsive and emphatic and too kind for his own good. A man after Ignis's own heart.
Ignis's expression lifts out of obscurity with that smile on him. In the interim, his fingers drop to the table, drumming and rueful, caving into fitfulness. ]
I do love you the most. More than anything or anyone else. [ Dearly, then worse still, spoiling him and entertaining stunts like ill-advised forays into mine shafts. ] I suspect that's half of the problem.
[ If only the curse of it hadn't spread to the extent of nearly ruining their relationship, throwing a conniption fit over something that isn't there. It's not that he doesn't trust Noct, but he doesn't have much faith for those around himβ and himself, more often than not. Even Ignis can't predict the extent of his own vengeance when fully realized, insofar as Noctis is personally concerned. All that collateral damage wrought for the sake of one person. It's a terrifying thought.
From right underneath their noses comes the retrieval of his plate, whisked away to the sink to endure the duress of dish soap and a scrubber. He can scrounge up enough belief that Noctis can bring up his own plate when he's well and ready; can't keep treating him like a child, even if he insists on acting like one from time to time (so he isn't really over Noct's death-defying fall this evening, not at all). ]
That's all I'll berate you for today. You're welcome to tend to other things as soon as you've finished supper.
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What's the other half of the problem?
[ Noctis asks, ever curious as he polishes up his food and approaches him. Censure over for tonight, it's Noctis' turn to keep pushing the envelope, wanting to dig into just how Ignis is feeling, to smooth over the ragged spots because this is how he's always been, because despite his willful ways he still desires to please, and in this case, he wants to please Ignis. And it definitely won't do to have him in a snit when Noctis is still thrumming from his victorious high off an exciting adventure in a mine shaft. The adrenaline is slow to dissipate, and he steps in closer than he should when his boyfriend/guardian/companion/confidant/adviser/chamberlain is still feeling quite poorly from the events of the evening. ]
I think wise is overrated.
[ He says archly, because it's just like Ignis to overthink and work himself into a rightful snit, right? ] You know, you could stand to be a dumbass once in awhile. Well, dumbass in a good way, not in a jerk way. Less thinking, more doing.
[ He holds out his plate and cutlery to him. ]
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I feel like a good one already.
[ No man is perfect. Anything can be ascribed values and logic, but they're all relative to the matter. Ignis does what he must, which in most cases, is only what he can. Carefully setting the platter he's currently working on, Ignis takes the dish he's handed, which he also sets down in favor of subjecting Noct to an open rupture of a kiss, his soapy hands leaving damp prints around the prince's forearms when Ignis executes the storming mood in him, forsakes it outright.
Afterwards, the synchronism between his words and his behavior's broken, both prim and heavily panting when leaning back, eyes daring censure. ]
How I absolutely wouldn't be able to fare well without you, if you were gone. That's the other half of it. The least you could do is bring me with you the next time you decide to be so incredibly reckless.
[ So he can be selfish. So he can be every bit as selfish as Noctis under the right circumstances. ]
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Which is stupid, because this is such a fundamental, powerful part of Ignis; an immense, obvious answer hiding in plain sight. He opens up to the kiss when Ignis grips him, a testament to his love for him that he doesn't ask why, only simply opens up and presses his tongue back to his, stepping into his circle as he meets him halfway, laving at the rupture of his emotion, raw and potent and overwhelming.
Ignis is a storm, rough and fierce and passionate, the truth of his words rendering Noctis speechless for a moment, taken aback. Of course. Of course. Ignis jealousy of the firefighters, while a big part of it, had not been the main part. It goes deeper than that, right to the day they had first met and Ignis had been his only friend. His oldest, only friend until Prompto came alone, and even if Ignis has Noctis' heart, some things don't die easily.
Not that Noctis can't commiserate, if his blistering opinion of Ignis' past perceived fancies is any indication. Noctis, who quietly hates when something takes Ignis away from him, understands with full clarity. There is no censure to be dispensed when the kiss ends, and Noctis looks hazy for a moment, just a moment, licking his lips as if chasing the warmth of his kiss, wanting it to have lasted just a little longer. ]
I'm sorry. [ He says at last, apology given freely in the face of Ignis' truth, laid out before him, plain and simple, and he closes the distance between them, daubs of water on his forearms where Ignis' hold had been. ] You know I never want to be without you. [ His love, his light; the idea of Ignis languishing without him makes his heart ache, and when he kisses him back again, it's infinitely more gentle. ]
I'll take you with me the next time we go ghost hunting in an abandoned mine shaft. Or anywhere else. [ Noctis murmurs against his lips, his arm creeping to curl around his waist. ] Does this mean you want us to be reckless together?
[ Because that's really ridiculously romantic. ]
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Brandishing all the discontent a jilted lover can possess with a sudsy sponge in one hand, Ignis sighs, a quiet echo against his ribs. ]
Don't apologize, Noct. I was far too rash.
[ Should've just left Ignis to stew over coffee stains once he'd chewed him out then make a bid at penitence. But it's that painful susceptibility to competition in him (as if he'd love Noctis any less, even with another man in the arrangement) that's riling its head now. The fear of inadequacy, rearing to bite. The ensuing kiss is all the more visceral for it, a soft contrast to his envy, and all the tension of the moment ruptures before gentleness.
Dealt with this sleight of hand, Ignis returns the gesture in kind, after, leaning so his forehead rests on his shoulder, breathing taking up a hazy shape where the clean lines of Noctis's throat are exposed. ]
If you wouldn't terribly mind, I'd want to be with you the whole way through, harebrained scheme or none. [ Reckless or not, as long as he can walk in the steps of a king-to-be predisposed to courting his own destruction, anyhow. ] Though I'll settle for causing mayhem and anarchy by your side afterwards, if worse comes to worst. Whatever you set your sights upon.
[ Then they'll get jailed and have to rely on the likes of Gladio to bail them out of some cramped precinct cell, and thereafter never hear the end of it. ]
All I ask for is your happiness.
[ Leave him to fuss and tie himself into knots over Noct's safety in the meantime. Twenty-two years of bad habit won't resolve itself on just his prince's horribly enlivening say-so. ]