[ If imitation is the highest form of flattery, then pretense must be the worst of it. Noct's affections haven't gained a sycophantic edge, but sometimes it grows insufferable when he's close enough to straighten out his collar, softly brushing forward, close enough to the scar jaggedly coursing down one side of his face. There must be a middle ground between concern and coddling, but they've lost their footing, fallen out-of-sync, the rest of their compunctions littered at their feet.
Weight settles on his wrist, a loose manacle made out of Noctis's fitful grip when he presses Ignis's hand up to the square peg. For better or worse, his mouth twists lopsidedly as soon as his fingertip's padded over it just once, neither a smile nor a frown. Inscrutable. None of that gentleness in his Highness hides the languid anagram of apprehension taking shape as forced cordiality within Noct (like he wouldn't notice the first wave of hesitation that stymies his lover, the lapse in his concentration when he gives too much away at once). Ignis thumbs over the shape, unable to see much more than bleak signs of light, enough to discern whether it's day instead of night, what separates a decent hour from an ungodly one. Though it hardly matters anymore, his internal clock keeps to its old, decaying patterns, too broken-in to shed old ritual. Just like this sleight of hand, in fact: straightening out conceals the tremor begrudging one of his hands, shaking to curl into a fist at his side. ]
If you'd be so kind and tell me where the hangers are. I haven't the faintest clue where anything is.
[ This time the strain is audible; there's no warm fondness in his grip, lanky and flat when he peels off Noctis's fingers, absentmindedly drops his wrist. Once, he would've been genuinely pleased by developments like these, but his enthusiasm is a dull echo, so detached from the ambivalence that's holed up in him to stay over time. All of these developments reek of weak mimicry, pretending at normalcy, like he'll ever be anything remotely close to ordinary again if he needs his clothes color-coded by shapes like a child unable to distinguish his slacks from his sleepwear. He did well enough keeping it sorted on his own, without outside involvement, and it'sβ helplessness in and of itself, letting other people come in and invasively rifle through his things with zero thought to how he'd previously arrayed it. He trusts his king, not outsiders to screw their eyes up over his belongings, fuss over how best to infantilize him. Noctis is either rigid at his side, stiff-limbed and too taut, or he is, overly alert at the sheer wrongness of it all. Paring down his comment into mild censure is all he can do to keep from letting the indignation flare up like some kind of contagion stealing its way over him. ]
... My apologies. I wasn't aware I gave off the impression that I couldn't dress myself well enough without outside involvement. You should have clued me in sooner if it taxed you this extent.
[ So much that Noctis took the inconvenience of sorting through his undoubtedly messy wardrobe upon himself. As the king, it must be difficult (shameful) contending with a man who mixes up color-coordination, buttoning on dress shirts with disproportionate slowness and still ending up one button loose for it. Ignis isn't intentional in his disdain, but his remark isn't any less incapacitating for it. ]
[ The stiff-backed response should have been what Noctis should realistically expect; that Ignis extracts offense at this gesture makes Noctis instinctively defensive, as does the tiniest twinge in his chest when he feels Ignis pry his wrist from his hold. It's as if the man detests being touched by him when not months ago Noctis vividly remembers the cadence of his cries, the way their bodies come together like they couldn't have enough of the other. They were moving in sync, then; bliss and desire intertwined, one never far apart from the other. Every moment had overflowed with passion that made them come alive, and oh, how Noctis remembers how Ignis felt under his hands, his questing lips, the intoxicating way he surrendered to him as they fell into each other, again and again.
And then things changed, slowly. Something out of place, left askew and unattended with the assurance that perhaps it would find its way again, given enough time. How wrong they were. Heartbreak comes through the tiniest ways, the smallest of splinters that weave in with the rest, one after another, building until it's too late, and it's impossible to pinpoint just when it started, and who began it all.
Noctis stares down at his hand in silence, distracted. Ignis' wrist had been warm, firm, and there still is an impressive strength in it that reminds him that he's not to be mssed with -- and indeed despite his...limitation, the rest of the Citadel knew it, too. After all, they've seen his skill with his knives, and unfortunate souls have had a painful taste of his cane. But the question remains: how long has it been since Ignis sought his touch instead of politely enduring and shedding it as soon as he can? He's not stupid, he can see it, the distance wedged between them, and Noctis scoring more losses than wins when he tries to bridge them the best way he knows how: clumsy, but earnest.
For all of Noctis' hard-earned wisdom and fortitude, his growing ease with royal matters and a fierce determination to be worthy of his people -- and more importantly, the ones he loves, Ignis chief among them -- Ignis himself seems to drift further away the closer he tries to get, like a leaf caught on a ripple, to be forever out of reach. It feels like mockery, how the more Noctis wants to protect Ignis from running himself aground (to prevent a repeat of when Ignis lost his sight), the more Ignis renders himself unreachable, a cold, distant star, only to be loved from a distance. ]
I don't care how you dress, you know that. [ He tries to stifle a bristle; unsuccessful in the wake of the disdain he picks up from Ignis' response. Perhaps it looked that way to Ignis, didn't it? That somehow Noctis has lost patience when he doesn't really care what Ignis (or anyone, really) wears in the first place, as long as it's not egregiously inappropriate, like a chocobo costume at a meeting. But why, why does Ignis constantly jump on the worst interpretations of a gesture, why -- ] I know you hate it when your clothes aren't perfect the first time around. I thought this system would make things better for you.
[ His lips thin at the notion that his efforts are displeasing (another failure, another wedge), and he glares at the arranged wardrobe and the clothes in it like they're at fault, somehow. ] Why do you always assume the worst?
[ This isn't anger as it should be; instead of weighing on his voice it levers itself on his own physicality, devolving into a mess of contradictions, searching for a way out of him. It's puncturing little holes in him on its way out, not unlike passion even when it's reversed and his mouth's split with it. There's no need to call it otherwise: sightlessness isn't an impediment or a limitation, but a memory he's dragged with him through his very lowest points, one that's only festered for the worse with Noct's return, when he's reminded more and more that he can't be who he used to be, that he's irreversibly changed, that there was never any going back when he only knows how to move forward, or stand perfectly still. This is Noctis asking him why he can't get over his ignominy, and this is the blind leading the blind.
Noctis doesn't need him anymore.
Instead, it's reminders like these that only cement the point further, eliciting that little jump of pain that sunders itself to his fingertips; he's only become a burden for himβ and he isn't suited for the king at all. Not as he is now, grown cynical and pining in his absence, sabotaging his own happiness, sick with revulsion for how he's clung to him. And he's scared that Noct might be clutching onto an affection that would sooner do him harm, acting on recollections from more than a decade ago, contenting himself with Ignis out of familiarity even as he gouges him open with his words.
Right now, he can't even see Noctis glare at the closet in earnest, but he can hear the agony he's stirred in him, and he finds himself lowering his hand, fumbling for Noct's fingers. He's grown used to his blindness, at leastβ it only takes scraping light fingers down his sleeve until he's taken possession of his hand, clutching heavily around the palm. ]
I understand. You're right. I didn't mean to hurt you.
[ Even in his stiff-backed formality, he can be penitent, quiet after the outage has lashed out in him has abated, left him overly solemn. It hurts badly; he doesn't have enough distance from Noctis to miss him enough to make himself inseparable, only to despair that there are less and less reasons to remain at his beck-and-call, but Ignis doesn't take refuge in silence this time around. Maintaining his hold on Noctis as Noctis maintains his hold over him is all he can do to prevent the tremors. What else is he supposed to do but bide his time until Noct outgrows him? Things will never get any better than overstaying his welcome. ]
You don't need to do this for me, Noct. It's already more than enough being at your side, even if I'm not nearly as competent as I was.
[ Ten years. Ten years, and the way he bridges the divide is with self-flagellation, as he's wont to do. ]
[ Noctis doesn't need him the way he used to -- dependent on him for almost everything, looking to him for guidance for as long as he could remember, until the Crystal changed everything, the ten years apart tearing asunder the bonds that kept them together, renewing and forging new ones in its place. The Noctis that stepped out of the Crystal is no longer the Noctis that had gone into it; and neither is the Ignis still the one that had seen him off at a distance, unable to change a thing.
When the devastation passed and came time to rebuild, the differences began to reveal themselves in greater detail, exposed in the streaming light of the dawn. Even so, he loves Ignis no less, bound in both memory and the hope for the future. The uncertainty of the present has wrong-footed him, and love has never been anything if not complicated, even more so when the giddiness of a lover's reunion passes, and in its wake are the pieces that have been left hanging in his absence.
The light that fueled their fire then has burned a hole between them, and Noctis knows they have to find each other again, reconnect. So far it's been more cross-wires than anything else, Noctis senses a quiet withdrawal and distance that he yearns to bridge. And it's with that in mind that his fingers thread through Ignis' own when he seeks him out, apology laced in those words when there's little for him to be sorry for. How can he begrudge him a thing when Ignis had done nothing but love him, his devotion and loyalty second to none, offered wholly and without recompense, and finally, finally Noctis can find himself becoming worthy of such a gift, of him, that this time he can be the one to return the favor after all these years.
A lump forming in his throat, he wordlessly tugs his lover towards him, pulling him into a tight embrace. ] No, it's not. [ He says into his shoulder, other arm wrapping around his shoulder to keep him close. It shouldn't be enough just to stay by his side. ] You should be asking for more.
[ He tells him, because isn't that what lovers do? Noctis might have a profoundly limited scope of what lovers do and don't do, but he thinks they're not supposed to still be like retainers, contented with what's given instead of seeking the first portion, the lion's share. That Ignis murmurs about his incompetence brings up the realisation that he's internalised it into his psyche, that somehow his vision loss had reduced his usefulness to Noctis, and the thought of it makes his heart clench painfully. ]
Iggy. [ He squeezes him tight, aching for him. ] I love you. I don't care about what you can or can't do for me. The person that you are now is good enough.
[ Ignis, to Noctis, is more than the sum of his parts, more than what he has lost -- in fact, the man is pretty damn competent, all things considered; and is most likely to effortlessly kick the asses of more than half of the people in this citadel. He doesn't release him, childishly greedy for what little Ignis allows of affection, and Noctis desperate to smooth over the wounds Ignis had flayed open in his own self-flagellation.
He misses him, he thinks, even when Ignis has never strayed from his side, and up until now Noctis isn't sure what to do about that, except to keep trying, to find a way for them to fit together again. ] There's nothing to forgive. Tell me what to do to make you happy.
[ It's been a long life, a longer career of trying to hold himself above reproach, impressing a conviction onto others that he couldn't entirely seize himself, influencing those who stood leagues above him, however indirect. Remaining with the prince always confounded that ruse by virtue of Noctis being himself, radiating his passions like a restless sun. Ignis hadn't asked to be inducted; he'd merely found himself falling step-by-step beside him, dedicated to the pursuit of Noctis like he could guard the shadow he cast with his own, shield every vulnerability with sheer will by force of habit.
The burden of closeness only came much later, trying to shield him from the death of King Regis and Lady Lunafreya, outlawed and trekking through their own lands like strangers homesick for a place to return. There'd been no time to confront Noct like he should have when he was only just coming to terms with his own loss. He'd hardly thought of himself beyond fallibility, and then the prince vanished, taking the rest of the light with him.
Over these ten years, it's become all too easy to pick apart his mistakes. There are many, many, the same ones that meddle into his consciousness when he startles awake and Noct's dozing at his side, soft and tinged with sleep. In some ways, he'll always be mired in the past, Gladio and Ignis not a day older than the last day he saw them in Altissia, though their voices have changed, and Noctis not any older than twenty years old, though he's grown. His hair's shaggier (still the same sort of unkempt, though not prepensely so) and stubbled; still just wisps along his chin that he's advised to take a razor to on more than one occasion. That might be the worst of it, trapped by time like some trick of the mind, second-guessing his own decline.
So it's more than taking the lion's share, it's that his coping mechanisms predate Noctis's return, ages before, listening to the chime of Ardyn's laughter and acquainting himself with failure. Good enough. How narrowly they averted losing everything. It's the sort of mourning that's only just started to alleviate, but still a long way until acceptance.
Noctis comes to him, a paragon of fever (voice hopscotching his vocal cords), and Ignis's head rests against him, overcome. Depressiveness doesn't leave with just words, digging shrewd and coring out his soul for the last decade he's kept the prophecy of Noct's demise like an anvil over his head, but he'd beaten the odds. And evenβ even if he'd wanted to see Noctis so badly, kingly and regal and still just himself, it's enough like this, grabbing a handful of his shirt and holding him steady. ]
Then I'd stay by your side, if you'll have me. I'd always choose that. [ Another hundred or thousand lifetimes and he'd always pick him; to be blinded or downtrodden or killed has never had any bearing on his love for him, and it's crushing damnably on the windpipe when Ignis breaths in, the weight of a decade on his lungs. ] You've made me the happiest.
[ However misdirected, his anger only lies with himself, the frustration he's bottled up shorting out at the worst moments. For all he's regretted, he's never thought of losing his sight as a price. Here, in this moment with Noctis, light dripping in like filaments at the very corners of his vision, all that he can see, there's only the issue of coming to terms with himself leftβ knowing his inadequacies, and still returning to Noctis at the end of it all. ]
Thank you, Noct. I'm glad to be with you, even as I am.
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no subject
Weight settles on his wrist, a loose manacle made out of Noctis's fitful grip when he presses Ignis's hand up to the square peg. For better or worse, his mouth twists lopsidedly as soon as his fingertip's padded over it just once, neither a smile nor a frown. Inscrutable. None of that gentleness in his Highness hides the languid anagram of apprehension taking shape as forced cordiality within Noct (like he wouldn't notice the first wave of hesitation that stymies his lover, the lapse in his concentration when he gives too much away at once). Ignis thumbs over the shape, unable to see much more than bleak signs of light, enough to discern whether it's day instead of night, what separates a decent hour from an ungodly one. Though it hardly matters anymore, his internal clock keeps to its old, decaying patterns, too broken-in to shed old ritual. Just like this sleight of hand, in fact: straightening out conceals the tremor begrudging one of his hands, shaking to curl into a fist at his side. ]
If you'd be so kind and tell me where the hangers are. I haven't the faintest clue where anything is.
[ This time the strain is audible; there's no warm fondness in his grip, lanky and flat when he peels off Noctis's fingers, absentmindedly drops his wrist. Once, he would've been genuinely pleased by developments like these, but his enthusiasm is a dull echo, so detached from the ambivalence that's holed up in him to stay over time. All of these developments reek of weak mimicry, pretending at normalcy, like he'll ever be anything remotely close to ordinary again if he needs his clothes color-coded by shapes like a child unable to distinguish his slacks from his sleepwear. He did well enough keeping it sorted on his own, without outside involvement, and it'sβ helplessness in and of itself, letting other people come in and invasively rifle through his things with zero thought to how he'd previously arrayed it. He trusts his king, not outsiders to screw their eyes up over his belongings, fuss over how best to infantilize him. Noctis is either rigid at his side, stiff-limbed and too taut, or he is, overly alert at the sheer wrongness of it all. Paring down his comment into mild censure is all he can do to keep from letting the indignation flare up like some kind of contagion stealing its way over him. ]
... My apologies. I wasn't aware I gave off the impression that I couldn't dress myself well enough without outside involvement. You should have clued me in sooner if it taxed you this extent.
[ So much that Noctis took the inconvenience of sorting through his undoubtedly messy wardrobe upon himself. As the king, it must be difficult (shameful) contending with a man who mixes up color-coordination, buttoning on dress shirts with disproportionate slowness and still ending up one button loose for it. Ignis isn't intentional in his disdain, but his remark isn't any less incapacitating for it. ]
no subject
And then things changed, slowly. Something out of place, left askew and unattended with the assurance that perhaps it would find its way again, given enough time. How wrong they were. Heartbreak comes through the tiniest ways, the smallest of splinters that weave in with the rest, one after another, building until it's too late, and it's impossible to pinpoint just when it started, and who began it all.
Noctis stares down at his hand in silence, distracted. Ignis' wrist had been warm, firm, and there still is an impressive strength in it that reminds him that he's not to be mssed with -- and indeed despite his...limitation, the rest of the Citadel knew it, too. After all, they've seen his skill with his knives, and unfortunate souls have had a painful taste of his cane. But the question remains: how long has it been since Ignis sought his touch instead of politely enduring and shedding it as soon as he can? He's not stupid, he can see it, the distance wedged between them, and Noctis scoring more losses than wins when he tries to bridge them the best way he knows how: clumsy, but earnest.
For all of Noctis' hard-earned wisdom and fortitude, his growing ease with royal matters and a fierce determination to be worthy of his people -- and more importantly, the ones he loves, Ignis chief among them -- Ignis himself seems to drift further away the closer he tries to get, like a leaf caught on a ripple, to be forever out of reach. It feels like mockery, how the more Noctis wants to protect Ignis from running himself aground (to prevent a repeat of when Ignis lost his sight), the more Ignis renders himself unreachable, a cold, distant star, only to be loved from a distance. ]
I don't care how you dress, you know that. [ He tries to stifle a bristle; unsuccessful in the wake of the disdain he picks up from Ignis' response. Perhaps it looked that way to Ignis, didn't it? That somehow Noctis has lost patience when he doesn't really care what Ignis (or anyone, really) wears in the first place, as long as it's not egregiously inappropriate, like a chocobo costume at a meeting. But why, why does Ignis constantly jump on the worst interpretations of a gesture, why -- ] I know you hate it when your clothes aren't perfect the first time around. I thought this system would make things better for you.
[ His lips thin at the notion that his efforts are displeasing (another failure, another wedge), and he glares at the arranged wardrobe and the clothes in it like they're at fault, somehow. ] Why do you always assume the worst?
[ Of yourself, of me? ]
no subject
Noctis doesn't need him anymore.
Instead, it's reminders like these that only cement the point further, eliciting that little jump of pain that sunders itself to his fingertips; he's only become a burden for himβ and he isn't suited for the king at all. Not as he is now, grown cynical and pining in his absence, sabotaging his own happiness, sick with revulsion for how he's clung to him. And he's scared that Noct might be clutching onto an affection that would sooner do him harm, acting on recollections from more than a decade ago, contenting himself with Ignis out of familiarity even as he gouges him open with his words.
Right now, he can't even see Noctis glare at the closet in earnest, but he can hear the agony he's stirred in him, and he finds himself lowering his hand, fumbling for Noct's fingers. He's grown used to his blindness, at leastβ it only takes scraping light fingers down his sleeve until he's taken possession of his hand, clutching heavily around the palm. ]
I understand. You're right. I didn't mean to hurt you.
[ Even in his stiff-backed formality, he can be penitent, quiet after the outage has lashed out in him has abated, left him overly solemn. It hurts badly; he doesn't have enough distance from Noctis to miss him enough to make himself inseparable, only to despair that there are less and less reasons to remain at his beck-and-call, but Ignis doesn't take refuge in silence this time around. Maintaining his hold on Noctis as Noctis maintains his hold over him is all he can do to prevent the tremors. What else is he supposed to do but bide his time until Noct outgrows him? Things will never get any better than overstaying his welcome. ]
You don't need to do this for me, Noct. It's already more than enough being at your side, even if I'm not nearly as competent as I was.
[ Ten years. Ten years, and the way he bridges the divide is with self-flagellation, as he's wont to do. ]
... I'm sorry. Old habit. Will you forgive me?
no subject
When the devastation passed and came time to rebuild, the differences began to reveal themselves in greater detail, exposed in the streaming light of the dawn. Even so, he loves Ignis no less, bound in both memory and the hope for the future. The uncertainty of the present has wrong-footed him, and love has never been anything if not complicated, even more so when the giddiness of a lover's reunion passes, and in its wake are the pieces that have been left hanging in his absence.
The light that fueled their fire then has burned a hole between them, and Noctis knows they have to find each other again, reconnect. So far it's been more cross-wires than anything else, Noctis senses a quiet withdrawal and distance that he yearns to bridge. And it's with that in mind that his fingers thread through Ignis' own when he seeks him out, apology laced in those words when there's little for him to be sorry for. How can he begrudge him a thing when Ignis had done nothing but love him, his devotion and loyalty second to none, offered wholly and without recompense, and finally, finally Noctis can find himself becoming worthy of such a gift, of him, that this time he can be the one to return the favor after all these years.
A lump forming in his throat, he wordlessly tugs his lover towards him, pulling him into a tight embrace. ] No, it's not. [ He says into his shoulder, other arm wrapping around his shoulder to keep him close. It shouldn't be enough just to stay by his side. ] You should be asking for more.
[ He tells him, because isn't that what lovers do? Noctis might have a profoundly limited scope of what lovers do and don't do, but he thinks they're not supposed to still be like retainers, contented with what's given instead of seeking the first portion, the lion's share. That Ignis murmurs about his incompetence brings up the realisation that he's internalised it into his psyche, that somehow his vision loss had reduced his usefulness to Noctis, and the thought of it makes his heart clench painfully. ]
Iggy. [ He squeezes him tight, aching for him. ] I love you. I don't care about what you can or can't do for me. The person that you are now is good enough.
[ Ignis, to Noctis, is more than the sum of his parts, more than what he has lost -- in fact, the man is pretty damn competent, all things considered; and is most likely to effortlessly kick the asses of more than half of the people in this citadel. He doesn't release him, childishly greedy for what little Ignis allows of affection, and Noctis desperate to smooth over the wounds Ignis had flayed open in his own self-flagellation.
He misses him, he thinks, even when Ignis has never strayed from his side, and up until now Noctis isn't sure what to do about that, except to keep trying, to find a way for them to fit together again. ] There's nothing to forgive. Tell me what to do to make you happy.
no subject
The burden of closeness only came much later, trying to shield him from the death of King Regis and Lady Lunafreya, outlawed and trekking through their own lands like strangers homesick for a place to return. There'd been no time to confront Noct like he should have when he was only just coming to terms with his own loss. He'd hardly thought of himself beyond fallibility, and then the prince vanished, taking the rest of the light with him.
Over these ten years, it's become all too easy to pick apart his mistakes. There are many, many, the same ones that meddle into his consciousness when he startles awake and Noct's dozing at his side, soft and tinged with sleep. In some ways, he'll always be mired in the past, Gladio and Ignis not a day older than the last day he saw them in Altissia, though their voices have changed, and Noctis not any older than twenty years old, though he's grown. His hair's shaggier (still the same sort of unkempt, though not prepensely so) and stubbled; still just wisps along his chin that he's advised to take a razor to on more than one occasion. That might be the worst of it, trapped by time like some trick of the mind, second-guessing his own decline.
So it's more than taking the lion's share, it's that his coping mechanisms predate Noctis's return, ages before, listening to the chime of Ardyn's laughter and acquainting himself with failure. Good enough. How narrowly they averted losing everything. It's the sort of mourning that's only just started to alleviate, but still a long way until acceptance.
Noctis comes to him, a paragon of fever (voice hopscotching his vocal cords), and Ignis's head rests against him, overcome. Depressiveness doesn't leave with just words, digging shrewd and coring out his soul for the last decade he's kept the prophecy of Noct's demise like an anvil over his head, but he'd beaten the odds. And evenβ even if he'd wanted to see Noctis so badly, kingly and regal and still just himself, it's enough like this, grabbing a handful of his shirt and holding him steady. ]
Then I'd stay by your side, if you'll have me. I'd always choose that. [ Another hundred or thousand lifetimes and he'd always pick him; to be blinded or downtrodden or killed has never had any bearing on his love for him, and it's crushing damnably on the windpipe when Ignis breaths in, the weight of a decade on his lungs. ] You've made me the happiest.
[ However misdirected, his anger only lies with himself, the frustration he's bottled up shorting out at the worst moments. For all he's regretted, he's never thought of losing his sight as a price. Here, in this moment with Noctis, light dripping in like filaments at the very corners of his vision, all that he can see, there's only the issue of coming to terms with himself leftβ knowing his inadequacies, and still returning to Noctis at the end of it all. ]
Thank you, Noct. I'm glad to be with you, even as I am.