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[ After a decade, disorientation no longer takes the hammer to his psyche with impunity. The first time he summoned his daggers in practice, his grip lounged too far up the hilts, sharp contours of metal knifing into the skin in a savage oath of pain, and dropping them didn't register until they'd clattered down, consigned back into nothing. Cuts didn't register; it wasn't the pain, but the slipperiness of the blood that drew attention. How rashly he'd brutalized himself.
These days, his handling over a pair of blade is a little different. More slow and reverential, no longer besotted with bruising knuckles and spraining fingers, trading out confidence for discretion. Ignis wasn't born blind; the halls of the Citadel, however transformed in their remodeling, are consigned to the annals of sense-memory. The cane's not a necessity, but a comfort, charting out the space, the uncertainties. Each and every member of the king's inner retinue know better than to inconvenience a blind man, and his Majesty's de-facto adviser at that. It's a largely superfluous title. Noctis hasn't needed his counseling since the Starscourge was purged (as it stands, reciprocity turned on its head; he's the one who needs direction now).
Today, of all days, has been exceptional in inflaming his temper. His exasperation is a vise that shatters ribs when he retires toward his room with the intent of poring over more jargon-heavy manuscripts and polishing up on Braille. The spill of rushing steps to and fro lets on more than the cadence of fidgety small-talk just outside of the door when he's screwed the knob open, and Ignis is momentarily occupied by the sudden, looming lack of noise, how all of the commotion in the immediate vicinity dies stillborn when he enters, like they've been trained to fall silent on command, no provocation necessary.
Then the servants are hastily dismissing themselves, dispersing in twos and threes past him while doing their damnedest to avoid contact, like he might be rattled off-balance with a touch alone. Familiarity clues him into Noctis's lingering presence even without sharing words, breathing staggered out of its salvo some ways beyond him when he shuts the door. But there's no bare admittance of brassy humor nor rank longing in Ignis when he sets the cane aside, shedding his jacket with little fanfare.
The rigidity of Ignis's jaw is a slow reveal, a premonition of irritation souring his mouth when he turns toward the closet. Reaching for a hanger only takes a second to clue him in, fingers awkward and filmy around a dress shirt instead of the patch of air. ]
What did you do?
[ Impetuosity saws out of him too quick, leaves his words colder. Not fully-realized anger yet, just the rawness of it flaying his question open. ]
These days, his handling over a pair of blade is a little different. More slow and reverential, no longer besotted with bruising knuckles and spraining fingers, trading out confidence for discretion. Ignis wasn't born blind; the halls of the Citadel, however transformed in their remodeling, are consigned to the annals of sense-memory. The cane's not a necessity, but a comfort, charting out the space, the uncertainties. Each and every member of the king's inner retinue know better than to inconvenience a blind man, and his Majesty's de-facto adviser at that. It's a largely superfluous title. Noctis hasn't needed his counseling since the Starscourge was purged (as it stands, reciprocity turned on its head; he's the one who needs direction now).
Today, of all days, has been exceptional in inflaming his temper. His exasperation is a vise that shatters ribs when he retires toward his room with the intent of poring over more jargon-heavy manuscripts and polishing up on Braille. The spill of rushing steps to and fro lets on more than the cadence of fidgety small-talk just outside of the door when he's screwed the knob open, and Ignis is momentarily occupied by the sudden, looming lack of noise, how all of the commotion in the immediate vicinity dies stillborn when he enters, like they've been trained to fall silent on command, no provocation necessary.
Then the servants are hastily dismissing themselves, dispersing in twos and threes past him while doing their damnedest to avoid contact, like he might be rattled off-balance with a touch alone. Familiarity clues him into Noctis's lingering presence even without sharing words, breathing staggered out of its salvo some ways beyond him when he shuts the door. But there's no bare admittance of brassy humor nor rank longing in Ignis when he sets the cane aside, shedding his jacket with little fanfare.
The rigidity of Ignis's jaw is a slow reveal, a premonition of irritation souring his mouth when he turns toward the closet. Reaching for a hanger only takes a second to clue him in, fingers awkward and filmy around a dress shirt instead of the patch of air. ]
What did you do?
[ Impetuosity saws out of him too quick, leaves his words colder. Not fully-realized anger yet, just the rawness of it flaying his question open. ]
[ Noctis senses it seconds only after the servants do, irritation inflamed, simmering underneath that implacably poised facade. There are some things that don't change about Ignis even if just about everything has shifted, evolved, readjusted enough for the both of them to linger on the knife edge of uncertainty and familiarity, the warmth of memory and wounds not yet knitted together. The adage that time heals wounds is little but sweet deception -- left to time, wounds can only fester.
Noctis struggles with the uphill task of attending to his duties in the wake of devastation wrought upon his kingdom, and just about the rest of the world. Beyond Ardyn, beyond Starscourge, lies a greater and more difficult road, because the hardest thing to do in the world is to live in it, and live they do, in all its complicated, convoluted glory. Although these days, it's much less glory as it is a study in skillful maneuvering -- it has never been this tricky interacting with Ignis; it has never been this challenging to love him, when they come back together after a decade -- and it's almost like returning to a cherished home that's had its furniture rearranged; not enough to be wholly alien, but just enough to unsettle.
But he tries, because this is Ignis, the love of his life. Because he's sure that whatever they're going through now, the myriad little things like sandpaper, paring their nerves raw, surely they will pass. Surely they will find shared equilibrium again. So Noctis tries, even when Ignis gently, quietly slips just out of reach, and yet still stays close enough for him to hope.
Today is one of those days, when he eschews duties for the evening to organise a small team of dedicated servants. He has an idea engineered to ease things for Ignis; a system of differently shaped and textured pegs meant for different items and colors of clothing. His lover might have been relatively adept at dressing himself and making sure everything is as dapper as it previously was, but there are still times when it lapses, when Noctis gently corrects him with a quiet word and a soft kiss, working hard not to step on his toes (oftentimes, Ignis is as determined to refuse help from him as much as Noctis is determined to give it). He tries not to let it bother him; how he's ever really seen those scars up close, how Ignis still keeps him at arm's length even if they both pretend otherwise. Some days make it easier to buy into the lie than others -- today is not quite one of those days.
So when the servants hurry off to give them their space, Noctis draws himself up, forces cordiality as his gaze lingers on the set of his jaw (it's trickier when the rawness of Ignis' words betrays the barest touches of cold displeasure -- when did they become like this?). It's been weeks since he's seen a genuine smile touch his mouth, and every day it gets a little worse, as if the rigors of the day (and Noctis) wears on Ignis in ways Noctis can no longer quite placate, a dreadful little truth that lodges itself unpleasantly in the back of his mind.
But Ignis is Ignis, and he is beloved no matter mood or season. The young king gently shift his hand to the small square peg clipped to the dress shirt. ]
I was devising a system to make things easier for you in the morning. [ He explains, wonders if this would loosen the set of his jaw. It seems too much to ask for a smile, these days, and he tries not to think too hard on it. ] See, different shaped pegs mean different items of clothing, the textures mean different colors. [ He smiles, quite pleased with himself. ] I'm working with a team to install little audio markers on these hangers as well. It's quite something.
Noctis struggles with the uphill task of attending to his duties in the wake of devastation wrought upon his kingdom, and just about the rest of the world. Beyond Ardyn, beyond Starscourge, lies a greater and more difficult road, because the hardest thing to do in the world is to live in it, and live they do, in all its complicated, convoluted glory. Although these days, it's much less glory as it is a study in skillful maneuvering -- it has never been this tricky interacting with Ignis; it has never been this challenging to love him, when they come back together after a decade -- and it's almost like returning to a cherished home that's had its furniture rearranged; not enough to be wholly alien, but just enough to unsettle.
But he tries, because this is Ignis, the love of his life. Because he's sure that whatever they're going through now, the myriad little things like sandpaper, paring their nerves raw, surely they will pass. Surely they will find shared equilibrium again. So Noctis tries, even when Ignis gently, quietly slips just out of reach, and yet still stays close enough for him to hope.
Today is one of those days, when he eschews duties for the evening to organise a small team of dedicated servants. He has an idea engineered to ease things for Ignis; a system of differently shaped and textured pegs meant for different items and colors of clothing. His lover might have been relatively adept at dressing himself and making sure everything is as dapper as it previously was, but there are still times when it lapses, when Noctis gently corrects him with a quiet word and a soft kiss, working hard not to step on his toes (oftentimes, Ignis is as determined to refuse help from him as much as Noctis is determined to give it). He tries not to let it bother him; how he's ever really seen those scars up close, how Ignis still keeps him at arm's length even if they both pretend otherwise. Some days make it easier to buy into the lie than others -- today is not quite one of those days.
So when the servants hurry off to give them their space, Noctis draws himself up, forces cordiality as his gaze lingers on the set of his jaw (it's trickier when the rawness of Ignis' words betrays the barest touches of cold displeasure -- when did they become like this?). It's been weeks since he's seen a genuine smile touch his mouth, and every day it gets a little worse, as if the rigors of the day (and Noctis) wears on Ignis in ways Noctis can no longer quite placate, a dreadful little truth that lodges itself unpleasantly in the back of his mind.
But Ignis is Ignis, and he is beloved no matter mood or season. The young king gently shift his hand to the small square peg clipped to the dress shirt. ]
I was devising a system to make things easier for you in the morning. [ He explains, wonders if this would loosen the set of his jaw. It seems too much to ask for a smile, these days, and he tries not to think too hard on it. ] See, different shaped pegs mean different items of clothing, the textures mean different colors. [ He smiles, quite pleased with himself. ] I'm working with a team to install little audio markers on these hangers as well. It's quite something.
Edited (oops i had to fix something :') ) 2017-12-13 14:35 (UTC)
[ 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'sā€” 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. ]
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'sā€” 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?
[ Of yourself, of me? ]
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? ]
[ Noctis, for all intents and purposes, and despite all efforts to the contrary, does not have a normal childhood, nor does he have any kind of relationship that is even remotely normal, and that's only if people cared to step past the mantle of crown prince to befriend a boy who, despite being surrounded by so many so often, is nearly constantly lonely.
But then there is Prompto, and of course there is always Ignis -- but theirs isn't even remotely normal, not even on a good day. His childhood friend, protector, tutor, advisor, on the occasion even surrogate parent (he tries hard not to think about that one); Ignis had been all that stood between him and isolation. Of late he's become more than that, when Noctis' adolescent crush on him had evolved into something stronger, more pronounced and fiercely undeniable when he grew older.
He has loved Ignis for as long as he can remember, and had pursued him the moment he knew what it was, when jealousy burned red-hot in his chest at one of Ignis' classmates from school, when fevered dreams and fantasies had not abated ever since he first discovered what masturbating was. Shameful at first, embarrassing and wrong -- but he's eighteen now, and he knows better.
Fast forward to today, where it's been nine and a half months since he confessed his love for him, three months since they first slept together the moment he turned eighteen, and four days since he's last seen him. There is a lot of work for a prodigy like Ignis to be doing at the Citadel; lessons and training and important meetings, and while Noctis isn't the most clingy person around, he's still at the age where libidos are more prone to rage out of control, thoughts circling back to frenetic, vigorous copulation with incredible veracity.
Even princes are not immune to shamelessly carnal desires, and he's getting tired of having his hand settle matters. It's not Ignis' hand on his dick, and the apartment is still cold when he comes, when Ignis' kiss is a fevered figment of his imagination. He dreads the moment when reality blots put his fantasies, and the only time he hears Ignis is when he calls him.
So, four days and nine hours on, Noctis decides to do something reckless, something stupid and entirely powered by his libido, desire coiled under his skin and overriding all manner of sensibilities. He's aching for him, hard from when he had been touching himself for the past couple of minutes, unable to find release and inured to even the dirtiest imaginings, the sight of Ignis on his knees and his cock between those full, kiss-bruised lips, when he would tug on his hair and fuck into that hot wet mouth so hard that his older secret boyfriend would be gagging for it.
No, he thinks. He needs him. And so, his dick full and flushed dark, he takes a picture (or ten or twenty, he doesn't want the first dick pic he sends Ignis to be something he can't recognise), and sends him the one that looks the best, a trickle of pearly pre-come easing down a thick shaft. It looks good, his cock. It looks like it's begging for his mouth around it.
He sends it before he can lose his nerve. ]
I've got something that belongs to you.
But then there is Prompto, and of course there is always Ignis -- but theirs isn't even remotely normal, not even on a good day. His childhood friend, protector, tutor, advisor, on the occasion even surrogate parent (he tries hard not to think about that one); Ignis had been all that stood between him and isolation. Of late he's become more than that, when Noctis' adolescent crush on him had evolved into something stronger, more pronounced and fiercely undeniable when he grew older.
He has loved Ignis for as long as he can remember, and had pursued him the moment he knew what it was, when jealousy burned red-hot in his chest at one of Ignis' classmates from school, when fevered dreams and fantasies had not abated ever since he first discovered what masturbating was. Shameful at first, embarrassing and wrong -- but he's eighteen now, and he knows better.
Fast forward to today, where it's been nine and a half months since he confessed his love for him, three months since they first slept together the moment he turned eighteen, and four days since he's last seen him. There is a lot of work for a prodigy like Ignis to be doing at the Citadel; lessons and training and important meetings, and while Noctis isn't the most clingy person around, he's still at the age where libidos are more prone to rage out of control, thoughts circling back to frenetic, vigorous copulation with incredible veracity.
Even princes are not immune to shamelessly carnal desires, and he's getting tired of having his hand settle matters. It's not Ignis' hand on his dick, and the apartment is still cold when he comes, when Ignis' kiss is a fevered figment of his imagination. He dreads the moment when reality blots put his fantasies, and the only time he hears Ignis is when he calls him.
So, four days and nine hours on, Noctis decides to do something reckless, something stupid and entirely powered by his libido, desire coiled under his skin and overriding all manner of sensibilities. He's aching for him, hard from when he had been touching himself for the past couple of minutes, unable to find release and inured to even the dirtiest imaginings, the sight of Ignis on his knees and his cock between those full, kiss-bruised lips, when he would tug on his hair and fuck into that hot wet mouth so hard that his older secret boyfriend would be gagging for it.
No, he thinks. He needs him. And so, his dick full and flushed dark, he takes a picture (or ten or twenty, he doesn't want the first dick pic he sends Ignis to be something he can't recognise), and sends him the one that looks the best, a trickle of pearly pre-come easing down a thick shaft. It looks good, his cock. It looks like it's begging for his mouth around it.
He sends it before he can lose his nerve. ]
I've got something that belongs to you.
[ Ignis shouldn't be here.
He shouldn't be one toothbrush in the sink away from practically living with Noctis in his apartment in the city, but here he is anyway, entirely naked in Noctis' bed, spare toothbrush judiciously placed in an unused holder beside Noctis' own by the bathroom sink, and currently asleep beside him. There will be hell to pay if they're caught together, and even though Noctis is half-certain Regis wouldn't take issue with his sexual preference either way, he's almost entirely certain that he would be deeply disappointed. Princes are not made to fall in love with their advisors, and love is a luxury royalty cannot afford.
Even so.
Noctis is asleep on his side, an arm draped possessively over Ignis' waist, as if daring the sandman to snatch him from his hold. This morning, however, he's the first to wake -- a miracle, he knows, and he's aching in all the places from when he'd bent Ignis practically in half and fucked him so hard that the solid oak of his bed almost cracked under the force of it. And then there was the toy they played with, the vibrator Noctis took such pleasure in pushing inside of his older lover. That one was new, exciting, and he finds that he's going to have to ask Ignis to teach him more about it now.
His sex notebook lies open on the chair opposite the bed, and he makes a note to add more entries to the list as he comes awake, slow and groggy. It's not even remotely bright out, but sleep is mysteriously elusive this morning, slipping further out of reach when Noctis carelessly moves his hand to adjust the covers around Ignis when he brushes over something hard.
He pauses, lifts the covers and looks down. Clarification, always important.
Ah.
Moments like these are crucial ones, important ones, heavy with choice and potential, and Noctis hesitates for a few minutes before he slowly, delicately rubs a thumb along the veined, ridged underside of that magnificent morning wood his Ignis sports. ]
He shouldn't be one toothbrush in the sink away from practically living with Noctis in his apartment in the city, but here he is anyway, entirely naked in Noctis' bed, spare toothbrush judiciously placed in an unused holder beside Noctis' own by the bathroom sink, and currently asleep beside him. There will be hell to pay if they're caught together, and even though Noctis is half-certain Regis wouldn't take issue with his sexual preference either way, he's almost entirely certain that he would be deeply disappointed. Princes are not made to fall in love with their advisors, and love is a luxury royalty cannot afford.
Even so.
Noctis is asleep on his side, an arm draped possessively over Ignis' waist, as if daring the sandman to snatch him from his hold. This morning, however, he's the first to wake -- a miracle, he knows, and he's aching in all the places from when he'd bent Ignis practically in half and fucked him so hard that the solid oak of his bed almost cracked under the force of it. And then there was the toy they played with, the vibrator Noctis took such pleasure in pushing inside of his older lover. That one was new, exciting, and he finds that he's going to have to ask Ignis to teach him more about it now.
His sex notebook lies open on the chair opposite the bed, and he makes a note to add more entries to the list as he comes awake, slow and groggy. It's not even remotely bright out, but sleep is mysteriously elusive this morning, slipping further out of reach when Noctis carelessly moves his hand to adjust the covers around Ignis when he brushes over something hard.
He pauses, lifts the covers and looks down. Clarification, always important.
Ah.
Moments like these are crucial ones, important ones, heavy with choice and potential, and Noctis hesitates for a few minutes before he slowly, delicately rubs a thumb along the veined, ridged underside of that magnificent morning wood his Ignis sports. ]
[ For what it's worth, his own daydreams are fairly pedestrian. Maybe it's a consequence of the monotony paperwork introduces, making him so starved that his take on romance is the vision of Noctis parading himself around the kitchen in one of his dress shirts and little else, head propped to lean on his shoulder while berating Ignis on the addition of bell peppers to the omelette wallowing in the pan, or how cheekily the dimple at the corner of the prince's mouth presents itself when they forego brushing up on ways to handle foreign disputes in favor of resolving the latest argument (namely, curing a pair of lips in sore need of kissing). The point is that it's all very domestic, all very tame for delusions of grandeur. Noct never developed a liking for vegetables, but his libido's never been left particularly wanting for it, and Ignis can't find fault with the prince's appetite only intensifying as the weeks pile on.
Four days and five hundred and forty minutes since he's last been in Noctis's company and the hours meld. It's not the longest he's been away when he's played diplomat for months upon months several times before, but years ago he wasn't courting King Regis's son, the apple of his father's eye. Sleep-deprivation and those ten successive mugs of Ebony are finally catching up to him, long after they've mutilated his concentration. Currently on stenographer duty in the main conference hall with Gladio's father drafting up another plan for reconciling with the Nibelheim Empire, Ignis nearly misses the ping of phone as it buzzes awake; what alerts him isn't the notification itself, but the chime he's set whenever Noctis expresses chooses to contact him, and he glances over on a stray whim.
And then the next several minutes of Clarus Amicitia's voice are forever lost on him. Transcribing the rest of the speech becomes a pipe dream when Ignis's fingers renounce dictation in favor of twitching in shock over his phone screen. ]
y
[ Incredible. That was supposed to be you haven't left much to the imagination or some such drivel, suave the way he's utterly incapable of affecting right now. Apparently he's so far gone that he's forgotten the rest of the goddamned sentence, what with common sense immediately vacating his body and all, never to be seen again. It takes the announcement of the meeting's adjournment for lunch break to snap out of his trance and steadily, steadily walk in just a way his cock isn't threatening to oust itself from his slacks, gathering enough of his sanity to keep any treacherous desires surrounding Noctis's dick on the down-low until he can slip into the chef's dining quarters (one of his personal retreats from back when he was a mere child learning the intricacies of fine cuisine) and practically topple onto one of the seats in his haste to get away from polite company. Ignis's hard-on, gradually stiffening in his pants, is barely kept at bay as he carefully punches in his text, letter by grueling letter, until he's calmed down enough that he won't go careening into blatant sexual innuendo at the flip of a switch. ]
I scarcely doubt I have a proprietary right to any part of you, Highness.
[ Inversely, all of him belongs to Noctis, especially like this, with his fingers tapping a maddened tempo into the dining table shortly after to distract himself from denouncing self-respect and jerking off right here with the semi-erection he'd rather not acknowledge at all. Absolutely no good will come of the picture he's been sent, there's no way he'll be able to keep it remotely secure on his phone, but he doesn't have the heart to bring about its death sentence right now. The notion of Noct sprawled over upholstery in the sanctity of his apartment and fitfully stroking himself off to thoughts of him is a horribly compelling one, but Noctis can't flay him with guilt any harder than he's flaying himself. ]
Four days and five hundred and forty minutes since he's last been in Noctis's company and the hours meld. It's not the longest he's been away when he's played diplomat for months upon months several times before, but years ago he wasn't courting King Regis's son, the apple of his father's eye. Sleep-deprivation and those ten successive mugs of Ebony are finally catching up to him, long after they've mutilated his concentration. Currently on stenographer duty in the main conference hall with Gladio's father drafting up another plan for reconciling with the Nibelheim Empire, Ignis nearly misses the ping of phone as it buzzes awake; what alerts him isn't the notification itself, but the chime he's set whenever Noctis expresses chooses to contact him, and he glances over on a stray whim.
And then the next several minutes of Clarus Amicitia's voice are forever lost on him. Transcribing the rest of the speech becomes a pipe dream when Ignis's fingers renounce dictation in favor of twitching in shock over his phone screen. ]
y
[ Incredible. That was supposed to be you haven't left much to the imagination or some such drivel, suave the way he's utterly incapable of affecting right now. Apparently he's so far gone that he's forgotten the rest of the goddamned sentence, what with common sense immediately vacating his body and all, never to be seen again. It takes the announcement of the meeting's adjournment for lunch break to snap out of his trance and steadily, steadily walk in just a way his cock isn't threatening to oust itself from his slacks, gathering enough of his sanity to keep any treacherous desires surrounding Noctis's dick on the down-low until he can slip into the chef's dining quarters (one of his personal retreats from back when he was a mere child learning the intricacies of fine cuisine) and practically topple onto one of the seats in his haste to get away from polite company. Ignis's hard-on, gradually stiffening in his pants, is barely kept at bay as he carefully punches in his text, letter by grueling letter, until he's calmed down enough that he won't go careening into blatant sexual innuendo at the flip of a switch. ]
I scarcely doubt I have a proprietary right to any part of you, Highness.
[ Inversely, all of him belongs to Noctis, especially like this, with his fingers tapping a maddened tempo into the dining table shortly after to distract himself from denouncing self-respect and jerking off right here with the semi-erection he'd rather not acknowledge at all. Absolutely no good will come of the picture he's been sent, there's no way he'll be able to keep it remotely secure on his phone, but he doesn't have the heart to bring about its death sentence right now. The notion of Noct sprawled over upholstery in the sanctity of his apartment and fitfully stroking himself off to thoughts of him is a horribly compelling one, but Noctis can't flay him with guilt any harder than he's flaying himself. ]
[ Today, there's no alarm to shut off. Ignis hadn't thought to set one, in-between peeling off his suspenders and undoing sock garters, belt cast off by the wayside. Dealing with Noctis was enough to distract himā€” insufferably gorgeous, smiling coy and sweet when he came around to part his legs, which really made getting screwed into a state of incognizance its own kind of acute torture. Never mind how obscenely Noctis ducked down once he'd set the rhythm, batting his lashes while he shoved the vibrator inside, bracing him down with a smile that anchored him down to the bed. Much to his own chagrin, even, floored and convulsing underneath his grasp.
Rarely in his life has Ignis ever sounded so overcome than in these moments with Noct, his center of gravity disrupted for the warm focus of palms gliding over him, levering their weight. The anticipation shining through his breath only hitched when Noct eased back to slip inside himā€” and then afterwards, when Ignis was grinding to meet every deep thrust, teeming over with sensation until climax had sent himā€” sent them bothā€” right over the edge.
Even so.
Sleep crashes around him, and for once he hasn't stirred just yet. The ache still lingers, up the curvature of his ribs and nestled inside, but it's immensely soothing that Noct's snug around him. It's unfortunate that his body doesn't know when to quitā€” bleary with exhaustion but stiff under the covers, the ramifications of Noctis crumpled at his side where he made their bones interlock.
Ignis jostles somewhat as Noctis disentangles, alighting fears that he might rouse in a few seconds, but weariness has swathed him too intimately, leaving him entirely incognizant to the hand reaching down to thumb along his erection, stimulating nerves. Something reminiscent of a moan leaks out when Ignis's head lolls forward some, turning to find solace in smudging his cheek along the pillow, mumbling unintelligibly into the fabric. The dream of Noctis eagerly draping his fingers over him again hasn't solidified yet; it just preys on him when he reflexively twists to one side, obscuring his morning wood from view, like his modesty hasn't left him even in sleep. Makes sense. Showing off so much skin's indecent, even unconscious, even after Noct's pored over every inch of him. He's not the sort of bastard that doesn't think twice about setting his toothbrush on just any bathroom counter, after all. ]
Rarely in his life has Ignis ever sounded so overcome than in these moments with Noct, his center of gravity disrupted for the warm focus of palms gliding over him, levering their weight. The anticipation shining through his breath only hitched when Noct eased back to slip inside himā€” and then afterwards, when Ignis was grinding to meet every deep thrust, teeming over with sensation until climax had sent himā€” sent them bothā€” right over the edge.
Even so.
Sleep crashes around him, and for once he hasn't stirred just yet. The ache still lingers, up the curvature of his ribs and nestled inside, but it's immensely soothing that Noct's snug around him. It's unfortunate that his body doesn't know when to quitā€” bleary with exhaustion but stiff under the covers, the ramifications of Noctis crumpled at his side where he made their bones interlock.
Ignis jostles somewhat as Noctis disentangles, alighting fears that he might rouse in a few seconds, but weariness has swathed him too intimately, leaving him entirely incognizant to the hand reaching down to thumb along his erection, stimulating nerves. Something reminiscent of a moan leaks out when Ignis's head lolls forward some, turning to find solace in smudging his cheek along the pillow, mumbling unintelligibly into the fabric. The dream of Noctis eagerly draping his fingers over him again hasn't solidified yet; it just preys on him when he reflexively twists to one side, obscuring his morning wood from view, like his modesty hasn't left him even in sleep. Makes sense. Showing off so much skin's indecent, even unconscious, even after Noct's pored over every inch of him. He's not the sort of bastard that doesn't think twice about setting his toothbrush on just any bathroom counter, after all. ]
[ Ignis, despite fastidious appearances to the contrary, has always been a romantic, and it's one of the things Noctis has always appreciated about him even if the general notion of it sometimes goes over his head. The man is impeccably domestic, preferring small, heartwarming gestures to overblown ones -- all of it suiting the prince just fine (considering how romantically and emotionally inept Noctis can be). And speaking of suiting him, the minutes that drag on is almost unbearable, Noctis waiting by his phone for a response, any response aside from the single letter sent back in response.
So he's seen it, and a cursory glance at the time reveals Ignis' possible location -- Noctis is not the most devoted keeper of Ignis' timetable, not by a long shot, but he's aware that he should be in some sort of meeting right now. Ignis is prodigiously gifted, a quick study and dangerously intelligent; it's no wonder that he had been designated as tutor and companion at such a young age. Even now, he is still fiercely sought after; a lesser man would be jealous, but Noctis is aware that there are times when Ignis works himself to the bone, when he's running on fumes and yet still manages to keep everything in working order, much to Noctis' guilt.
Fingers thumbing over the screen, he mollifies himself by scrolling up to the previous texts, every one of them casual conversations, fitted with frequent requests and regular dispassionate entreaties and peppered with softer moments, fonder moments. Ignis likely deleted them from his phone, those softer moments, but Noctis saves it for moments when he finds himself missing his lover beyond a good, hard fucking. Noctis might find that he has a growing appetite for carnal pleasures thanks to hormones and all that messy shit that happens when you're becoming an adult, but he finds himself smiling at Ignis' quips, the evident thread of concern and care that lines every exchange they have together.
Not for the first time, he thinks of how fortunate he is that he possesses the loyalty of a man like Ignis, second to none in almost every way that counts. Exhaling, slowing down on his stroking -- not that it'll help, his own fantasies do very little in the way of courting release at this point -- and he's tempted to send him a follow up text when he responds.
Highness, he says, and Noctis knows this is a thing he usually does when he subconsciously wants to put some distance between them -- meaning he's come too close too quickly. Noctis considers more motivation than deterrent (there is little that's more satisfying that pursuing Ignis and being the reason for his rapidly waning self-control). Has he found somewhere quiet to settle in and text him? Maybe that chef room, perhaps; Noctis has always managed to find him there when they were little. ]
And yet, it only gets hard like this when I'm thinking of you.
[ He sends him another image, cock jutting proudly, slick and nearly glistening with his legs spread. ] If only you know what I'd give to have you between my legs right now.
So he's seen it, and a cursory glance at the time reveals Ignis' possible location -- Noctis is not the most devoted keeper of Ignis' timetable, not by a long shot, but he's aware that he should be in some sort of meeting right now. Ignis is prodigiously gifted, a quick study and dangerously intelligent; it's no wonder that he had been designated as tutor and companion at such a young age. Even now, he is still fiercely sought after; a lesser man would be jealous, but Noctis is aware that there are times when Ignis works himself to the bone, when he's running on fumes and yet still manages to keep everything in working order, much to Noctis' guilt.
Fingers thumbing over the screen, he mollifies himself by scrolling up to the previous texts, every one of them casual conversations, fitted with frequent requests and regular dispassionate entreaties and peppered with softer moments, fonder moments. Ignis likely deleted them from his phone, those softer moments, but Noctis saves it for moments when he finds himself missing his lover beyond a good, hard fucking. Noctis might find that he has a growing appetite for carnal pleasures thanks to hormones and all that messy shit that happens when you're becoming an adult, but he finds himself smiling at Ignis' quips, the evident thread of concern and care that lines every exchange they have together.
Not for the first time, he thinks of how fortunate he is that he possesses the loyalty of a man like Ignis, second to none in almost every way that counts. Exhaling, slowing down on his stroking -- not that it'll help, his own fantasies do very little in the way of courting release at this point -- and he's tempted to send him a follow up text when he responds.
Highness, he says, and Noctis knows this is a thing he usually does when he subconsciously wants to put some distance between them -- meaning he's come too close too quickly. Noctis considers more motivation than deterrent (there is little that's more satisfying that pursuing Ignis and being the reason for his rapidly waning self-control). Has he found somewhere quiet to settle in and text him? Maybe that chef room, perhaps; Noctis has always managed to find him there when they were little. ]
And yet, it only gets hard like this when I'm thinking of you.
[ He sends him another image, cock jutting proudly, slick and nearly glistening with his legs spread. ] If only you know what I'd give to have you between my legs right now.
[ Ignis is absolutely gorgeous in repose, but even more enthralling when he reacts to Noctis' cautious, gentle ministrations. He doesn't want to wake him all at once, no; it's a personal challenge, really, to see how far and how long he can go without rousing his entirely exhausted older lover. To have Ignis surrender to him so completely is a sweetness that still sits warmly in his stomach, his chest, and Noctis dimly muses that this must be what happiness and bliss is like.
Happiness, he thinks, is waking to a sleeping lover and watching the way their body responds to your explorations -- and when your lover is Ignis Scientia, then it's all the more a privilege to be beside him like this. He doesn't stop, smiling at that softly appreciative little moan, and Noctis wonders what Ignis dreams about, if he dreams at all. He's warmed by that subconciously bid for modesty -- there really isn't anything sexier than when Ignis tries to keep everything under wraps, classy and modest but coming apart under Noctis' attentions all the same. Curling around Ignis' body, fitting around him like he was made just for this, Noctis kisses his shoulder lightly, the rest of his fingers closing around his shaft warmly, delicately, appreciating the shape and width of him, how he feels in his palm.
He will never have enough of this, he thinks; he will never tire of loving a man like Ignis, and in the minutes before dawn it's easy to believe that this isn't something just short of treason, a one-sided punishment that would land wholly on Igis' shoulders, as if Noctis isn't the one who had sought him as well, relentless and willful until Ignis had been overcome, every excuse for propriety flung by the wayside because Ignis is only human, just like his prince. But there is little to worry about -
-- Noctis will protect him and their secret, no matter what it takes. Fingers gliding up and down his cock, warm but not stifling, Noctis seeks to stir alight sleeping embers with uncharacteristic patience. ]
I hope you're dreaming of me. [ He whispers so softly in his ear that it could be mistaken for the last dregs of a midnight breeze, and his thumb comes to rub thoughtful little circles over the slit of his cock, the memory of Ignis' come on his tongue a vividly welcome one. Oh, how he had been so completely wrecked and undone, how Noctis had felt like the luckiest man in the world to get to see just how beautiful Ignis looked, open and vulnerable and oh so human. Maybe he should see if he could take care of his morning wood without waking him -- won't that be something? ]
Happiness, he thinks, is waking to a sleeping lover and watching the way their body responds to your explorations -- and when your lover is Ignis Scientia, then it's all the more a privilege to be beside him like this. He doesn't stop, smiling at that softly appreciative little moan, and Noctis wonders what Ignis dreams about, if he dreams at all. He's warmed by that subconciously bid for modesty -- there really isn't anything sexier than when Ignis tries to keep everything under wraps, classy and modest but coming apart under Noctis' attentions all the same. Curling around Ignis' body, fitting around him like he was made just for this, Noctis kisses his shoulder lightly, the rest of his fingers closing around his shaft warmly, delicately, appreciating the shape and width of him, how he feels in his palm.
He will never have enough of this, he thinks; he will never tire of loving a man like Ignis, and in the minutes before dawn it's easy to believe that this isn't something just short of treason, a one-sided punishment that would land wholly on Igis' shoulders, as if Noctis isn't the one who had sought him as well, relentless and willful until Ignis had been overcome, every excuse for propriety flung by the wayside because Ignis is only human, just like his prince. But there is little to worry about -
-- Noctis will protect him and their secret, no matter what it takes. Fingers gliding up and down his cock, warm but not stifling, Noctis seeks to stir alight sleeping embers with uncharacteristic patience. ]
I hope you're dreaming of me. [ He whispers so softly in his ear that it could be mistaken for the last dregs of a midnight breeze, and his thumb comes to rub thoughtful little circles over the slit of his cock, the memory of Ignis' come on his tongue a vividly welcome one. Oh, how he had been so completely wrecked and undone, how Noctis had felt like the luckiest man in the world to get to see just how beautiful Ignis looked, open and vulnerable and oh so human. Maybe he should see if he could take care of his morning wood without waking him -- won't that be something? ]
[ 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 himā€” 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 leastā€” 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?
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 himā€” 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 leastā€” 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?
[ 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.
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.
[ The moment his father sent a missive requesting his immediate presence at the Citadel is the moment that Noctis knows nothing good will come out of it. Good news are delivered in the standard time, which leaves only the restrictively personal and devastatingly terrible, and it's with a knot in his throat that Noctis makes straight for where he is asked to meet him, fearing for Regis' health. He has only just recovered from a cold, and is still not in the pink of health, the last thing Noctis needs is for Regis to develop complications.
He discovers that it's nothing of the sort twenty seconds into the meeting. The king's constitution looks much improved, but that's the extent of the young prince's relief when his father looks sympathetic and grim, both. He brings up the last person Noctis expects this meeting to be about, and Noctis learns that apparently he has not been as subtle about his thing with Ignis as he thought he'd been. That there have been whispers in the court, and these whispers, as well as reports in the affirmative, have reached the king's ears. Regis is not angry, but the sadness in his eyes is obvious, as is the firm measured tone he uses when he reminds him of his duty, that love is not something meant for royalty, who have a duty to their people, to the many others who risk their lives for them day after day.
Noctis is quiet at first, a cold dread twisting in his stomach, and he protests when he ought, riled and upset at the unfairness of it all, how even kings and princes are cogs in the grander machinations of royalty. There is a price to pay for such prestige and privilege, and Noctis cannot help but imagine a gilded cage. Regis might have done everything he can to ensure that his son lives out a normal life, but sooner or later the toll comes due, and the fantasy ends. His life is not his own -- his life belongs to his people just as they belong to him. Noctis resists, pushes back, rebellious and disbelieving, only to be cut short by Regis.
And after that comes a bitter understanding of his place, of the fact that he will have to make arrangements to procure a suitable candidate, a young woman to provide an heir and to ensure that the line of Lucis kings continues unbroken. Noctis' love for Ignis has no place here, and it's with churning, unhappy thoughts that he returns to his own apartment in the heart of the sky, where Ignis is bound to be. They're supposed to watch a movie together, and they were going to have the entire apartment to themselves. It's a thought that would have filled Noctis with anticipation and pleasure, but today, it only brings him the barest comfort.
So people already know about him and Ignis, people who had been talking behind his back (not a novel thing, really, you get used to it), and as he parses through everything Regis has so calmly related to him, Noctis finds that he has to swallow the lump in his throat. Nobody gets everything that they want -- not even royalty, and Ignis, the one thing Noctis has wanted all his life, Ignis does not have a place by his side as a lover.
He bites his lip when he unlocks the door and enters, contemplates escaping into the arcades for awhile; but he has a date with Ignis he'd been looking forward to; it's just unfortunate that his father's directives have come down at such a terrible time. He loves Regis, he really does. He just doesn't love the sacrifices he has to make, his love for Ignis chief among them.
Padding into the apartment, he sighs and heads towards the kitchenette where Ignis is busy with something. It's so wonderfully, painfully domestic, Ignis with his sleeves rolled up, looking as elegantly casual as he's ever seen him, and no less gorgeous. ] Iggy. Can we talk?
He discovers that it's nothing of the sort twenty seconds into the meeting. The king's constitution looks much improved, but that's the extent of the young prince's relief when his father looks sympathetic and grim, both. He brings up the last person Noctis expects this meeting to be about, and Noctis learns that apparently he has not been as subtle about his thing with Ignis as he thought he'd been. That there have been whispers in the court, and these whispers, as well as reports in the affirmative, have reached the king's ears. Regis is not angry, but the sadness in his eyes is obvious, as is the firm measured tone he uses when he reminds him of his duty, that love is not something meant for royalty, who have a duty to their people, to the many others who risk their lives for them day after day.
Noctis is quiet at first, a cold dread twisting in his stomach, and he protests when he ought, riled and upset at the unfairness of it all, how even kings and princes are cogs in the grander machinations of royalty. There is a price to pay for such prestige and privilege, and Noctis cannot help but imagine a gilded cage. Regis might have done everything he can to ensure that his son lives out a normal life, but sooner or later the toll comes due, and the fantasy ends. His life is not his own -- his life belongs to his people just as they belong to him. Noctis resists, pushes back, rebellious and disbelieving, only to be cut short by Regis.
And after that comes a bitter understanding of his place, of the fact that he will have to make arrangements to procure a suitable candidate, a young woman to provide an heir and to ensure that the line of Lucis kings continues unbroken. Noctis' love for Ignis has no place here, and it's with churning, unhappy thoughts that he returns to his own apartment in the heart of the sky, where Ignis is bound to be. They're supposed to watch a movie together, and they were going to have the entire apartment to themselves. It's a thought that would have filled Noctis with anticipation and pleasure, but today, it only brings him the barest comfort.
So people already know about him and Ignis, people who had been talking behind his back (not a novel thing, really, you get used to it), and as he parses through everything Regis has so calmly related to him, Noctis finds that he has to swallow the lump in his throat. Nobody gets everything that they want -- not even royalty, and Ignis, the one thing Noctis has wanted all his life, Ignis does not have a place by his side as a lover.
He bites his lip when he unlocks the door and enters, contemplates escaping into the arcades for awhile; but he has a date with Ignis he'd been looking forward to; it's just unfortunate that his father's directives have come down at such a terrible time. He loves Regis, he really does. He just doesn't love the sacrifices he has to make, his love for Ignis chief among them.
Padding into the apartment, he sighs and heads towards the kitchenette where Ignis is busy with something. It's so wonderfully, painfully domestic, Ignis with his sleeves rolled up, looking as elegantly casual as he's ever seen him, and no less gorgeous. ] Iggy. Can we talk?
[ It's over. There's no overwrought farewell, however, even when the both of them have somehow spectacularly failed to disentangle themselves from each other's lives. Weeks upon weeks have been building up to a climactic point that falls flat on its face; there is no shouting affair when he packs away his belongings, George's pitiful meowing around Noct's ankles a visceral contrast to the freeze-frame of unbecoming horror on his Highness's when he shuts the door behind him. Maybe Noct would've gotten on his knees and snapped every retort with his teeth to get the last word in, but he loves Ignis more than winning an argument that's misplaced its counterpoint, and perhaps that's why he's helpless to the very last, goading him to cross a distance he won't breach, won't even attempt traversing.
Noctis doesn't deserve this. He knows. He knows. His belligerence should have proved useful to him, if Ignis wasn't so much of a coward, surrendering over to causality. It's not so bad, the gilded knife of Noct's frustration hoisted up over his head and daring the stab for as long as his anger can be held aloft, a feeling so surreal that he can't remember why he'd ever gone without itā€” the hot insistence of Noct's fervor bowed over him, unsparing, galvanizing him to his resolve in a way he'd never intended. The crown prince is gorgeous, as always, even in the deep chasm of his malevolence.
After that is the mishmash of days upon days, preparing for the long trip abroad. He's making up for lost time and going through the motions, charting out the gaps so his visits to the Citadel will be less and less frequent, cemented to the journey like some nomad who's lost sight of the destination, the very reason for leaving. Ignis has gone to scandalizing lengths to avoid Noct all the while, politely deflect the stream of voicemails and harangued texts. He doesn't know how to respond, because he doesn't know what Noctis would prefer to hear, so he sticks to silence, up until Noct announces his arrival in the Citadel, breaking their careful dance of avoidance with one last cutting blow to his conscience.
Ignis, much too late for contriving an excuse for his absence, finds Noct holed up in one corner of his room, legs bunched up on the rolly chair. The face of him is slanted away, but in a show of audacity he's gotten his hands around the satin box he'd left on the table. Inside it, the ring's glinting, cool and faceted, and it's asking too much out of Ignis to relinquish his sudden, intense sympathy for moving targets at the end of a shooting range when Noctis glances up. Sleeplessness brands his eyes, dark and furious and sad. From this close, he's only just registering the stinging quality to them, akin to sharp resentment, or a blade sawing over bone, and it's so strange how terror underscores desire. His fingers drag over the paneling of the door like he's set to rip it, the movement ungainly, dripping with shock. ]
I wasn't expecting you to arrive nearly so soon.
Noctis doesn't deserve this. He knows. He knows. His belligerence should have proved useful to him, if Ignis wasn't so much of a coward, surrendering over to causality. It's not so bad, the gilded knife of Noct's frustration hoisted up over his head and daring the stab for as long as his anger can be held aloft, a feeling so surreal that he can't remember why he'd ever gone without itā€” the hot insistence of Noct's fervor bowed over him, unsparing, galvanizing him to his resolve in a way he'd never intended. The crown prince is gorgeous, as always, even in the deep chasm of his malevolence.
After that is the mishmash of days upon days, preparing for the long trip abroad. He's making up for lost time and going through the motions, charting out the gaps so his visits to the Citadel will be less and less frequent, cemented to the journey like some nomad who's lost sight of the destination, the very reason for leaving. Ignis has gone to scandalizing lengths to avoid Noct all the while, politely deflect the stream of voicemails and harangued texts. He doesn't know how to respond, because he doesn't know what Noctis would prefer to hear, so he sticks to silence, up until Noct announces his arrival in the Citadel, breaking their careful dance of avoidance with one last cutting blow to his conscience.
Ignis, much too late for contriving an excuse for his absence, finds Noct holed up in one corner of his room, legs bunched up on the rolly chair. The face of him is slanted away, but in a show of audacity he's gotten his hands around the satin box he'd left on the table. Inside it, the ring's glinting, cool and faceted, and it's asking too much out of Ignis to relinquish his sudden, intense sympathy for moving targets at the end of a shooting range when Noctis glances up. Sleeplessness brands his eyes, dark and furious and sad. From this close, he's only just registering the stinging quality to them, akin to sharp resentment, or a blade sawing over bone, and it's so strange how terror underscores desire. His fingers drag over the paneling of the door like he's set to rip it, the movement ungainly, dripping with shock. ]
I wasn't expecting you to arrive nearly so soon.
[ The hardest thing to do is to watch Ignis pack all his things. Before that, Noctis' apartment had borne many little signs that another lived there with him, this sleek, lonely apartment that's gained another occupant and is all the more welcome for it. It's the neatly-folded clothes Noctis had haphazardly made space for, it's the neatly arranged books on an unused shelf, a recipe book on the counter, the heartwarming smell of home-cooked food and the sweet richness of baked pastries and confections. It's the way Ignis occupies that space, a presence that lends life to a place Noctis has no real attachment to, because at the end of the day he will return to the Citadel, with all its magnificence and finery and long, long corridors.
It is Ignis who turned this apartment into a home, a place they've spent countless evenings curled up with each other; Ignis fitting himself into his heart, carving his name into the space between his ribs, occupying the silence between heartbeats. And one day, it's Ignis that takes it all away.
A relationship is built on the smallest things, and that is why when it ends, it's not the person-shaped hole in your chest that kills you; it's the thousand little papercuts that comes after he's gone. It's the many little reminders of a presence gouged out, and nothing is more pronounced than an empty space where something beloved used to be. The bed, colder. The kitchenette, waiting to be used. The bathroom sink, missing one toothbrush. The mobile phone, silent, bloated with messages that were read but not responded to, and Noctis never did have the heart to command his responses no matter the degree of hurt, girded by the wind of his anger.
For Noctis, a lesson in love.
For George, a Pyrrhic victory.
And so he turns up today, curtly informs him of his arrival when he steps foot onto the grounds -- princes, after all, reserve the right not to inform the royal retinue of their intentions to return, no matter the inconvenience caused. After all, Noctis eschews royal receptions, as if they don't already have enough to do in the day-to-day running of the household. He feels rather like a thief in his own house when he slips into the grounds, and makes his way immediately for Ignis' room. His father would be disappointed, surely, but Noctis is a wounded animal, the days without Ignis' warmth wrapped around him lending itself to more sleepless nights, and Noctis is all the more resentful for it.
His room is pristine, carefully arranged to be entirely bereft of any human touch save for the one small black velvet box sitting on the table. Noctis is not normally the invasive sort, but then again, these are not normal circumstances, and against his better judgement he picks it up, opening it to reveal the ring that glitters inside, cloaked in royal colors, designed and crafted by someone whose workmanship could command a king's ransom and then some. This is not a ring to be worn casually, the make of it too masculine to mistake it for a gift to the opposite sex. This box is not brand new, the edges gently smoothed out by long periods of time tucked into a pocket. He pulls out the ring to inspect it, and in doing so stops breathing, staring down at the words gilded onto the band. His name, and more latin he wishes he had paid attention to during one of Ignis' many lessons on the language.
His name.
Noctis stares at it blankly, seating himself on the nearby rolly chair as it hits him all at once, the weight of revelation clenched around his heart. This is -- or perhaps, was -- meant for him. He pulls his legs up and curls around the box and its extracted content, a world of thoughts whirling in his head in a haze of white noise. Shock, fury, sadness, a hope he doesn't allow himself to feel, the reminder that this can never happen, the realisation that perhaps Ignis had not stopped loving him, after all, that once upon a time he had wanted --
-- he looks up from the box when Ignis enters, and if there ever is an astute reimagining of the adage about deers caught in the headlights of resentfully loving speeding vehicles, this moment would be the top contender. Ignis, still so fucking beautiful standing there like that, now unreachable, and no longer his.
Noctis wishes it doesn't still hurt. ]
Sorry, did I ruin your escape plans?
[ These words, with all the potential for exceptional amounts of venom only now half-fulfilled, worn down by a heartache Noctis refuses to acknowledge. The gilded knife of his frustration is halted, just for these few moments. ] Tell me what this is supposed to be.
It is Ignis who turned this apartment into a home, a place they've spent countless evenings curled up with each other; Ignis fitting himself into his heart, carving his name into the space between his ribs, occupying the silence between heartbeats. And one day, it's Ignis that takes it all away.
A relationship is built on the smallest things, and that is why when it ends, it's not the person-shaped hole in your chest that kills you; it's the thousand little papercuts that comes after he's gone. It's the many little reminders of a presence gouged out, and nothing is more pronounced than an empty space where something beloved used to be. The bed, colder. The kitchenette, waiting to be used. The bathroom sink, missing one toothbrush. The mobile phone, silent, bloated with messages that were read but not responded to, and Noctis never did have the heart to command his responses no matter the degree of hurt, girded by the wind of his anger.
For Noctis, a lesson in love.
For George, a Pyrrhic victory.
And so he turns up today, curtly informs him of his arrival when he steps foot onto the grounds -- princes, after all, reserve the right not to inform the royal retinue of their intentions to return, no matter the inconvenience caused. After all, Noctis eschews royal receptions, as if they don't already have enough to do in the day-to-day running of the household. He feels rather like a thief in his own house when he slips into the grounds, and makes his way immediately for Ignis' room. His father would be disappointed, surely, but Noctis is a wounded animal, the days without Ignis' warmth wrapped around him lending itself to more sleepless nights, and Noctis is all the more resentful for it.
His room is pristine, carefully arranged to be entirely bereft of any human touch save for the one small black velvet box sitting on the table. Noctis is not normally the invasive sort, but then again, these are not normal circumstances, and against his better judgement he picks it up, opening it to reveal the ring that glitters inside, cloaked in royal colors, designed and crafted by someone whose workmanship could command a king's ransom and then some. This is not a ring to be worn casually, the make of it too masculine to mistake it for a gift to the opposite sex. This box is not brand new, the edges gently smoothed out by long periods of time tucked into a pocket. He pulls out the ring to inspect it, and in doing so stops breathing, staring down at the words gilded onto the band. His name, and more latin he wishes he had paid attention to during one of Ignis' many lessons on the language.
His name.
Noctis stares at it blankly, seating himself on the nearby rolly chair as it hits him all at once, the weight of revelation clenched around his heart. This is -- or perhaps, was -- meant for him. He pulls his legs up and curls around the box and its extracted content, a world of thoughts whirling in his head in a haze of white noise. Shock, fury, sadness, a hope he doesn't allow himself to feel, the reminder that this can never happen, the realisation that perhaps Ignis had not stopped loving him, after all, that once upon a time he had wanted --
-- he looks up from the box when Ignis enters, and if there ever is an astute reimagining of the adage about deers caught in the headlights of resentfully loving speeding vehicles, this moment would be the top contender. Ignis, still so fucking beautiful standing there like that, now unreachable, and no longer his.
Noctis wishes it doesn't still hurt. ]
Sorry, did I ruin your escape plans?
[ These words, with all the potential for exceptional amounts of venom only now half-fulfilled, worn down by a heartache Noctis refuses to acknowledge. The gilded knife of his frustration is halted, just for these few moments. ] Tell me what this is supposed to be.
[ There's nothing but ruthlessness to Noctis in times like these, possessed by defiance and capable of brutality that could tear Ignis apart, if allowed. He wouldn't need a weapon when he's only ever needed himself. Retaliation needs little beyond a steady, throttling hand to get the job done, and Noct wields the gravitas for even the most intimate of homicides, commanding his attention where he's seated, unmoving, eyes prickling and truculent.
But the veneer's already cracked, hurt shining on through. It refracts through him as light on glass does, his glare shattered and misting up. It's unbearable. Ignis's hand snags on the doorframe, gone rigid, the bones in his knuckles aching taut. There's nothing else to do for misjudging distance when detaching himself didn't undo the damage. If he handled this earlier on in their relationship, still fresh and newfangled, perhaps that would've mitigated the worst of it. (Except that's a lie, isn't it? Except that Ignis never does anything in half-measures. After swearing fealty to Noctis, he'd never devote himself so irresolutely.)
A lot can change, given time. There's no reason he shouldn't have expected the same to apply here. Noct has never been anything but resilient, even when battered down and lost, grasping for control. It's the same rhetoric governing Latin, studying a dead language no one else speaks, going so far to hunt down a jeweler to fine-tune the ring, paycheck after paycheck poured into it. Ignis is sentimental to an unjustifiably hurtful degree, so it only makes sense he'd be heavy-handed with his affections.
If Noctis thinks back far enough, maybe he remembers Virgil's works, the eight eclogue he'd covered in what might as well be a lifetime ago: the anecdote of the shepherd proclaiming his tenderness for his beloved, already promised away to someone else. The passage was a touch so brusque that he'd wanted Noctis to smile at the despotism of it in recall, poke fun at a yearning so selfish that it'd expect reciprocation or hurl itself down against the waves and drown. Nunc scio quid sit Amor. Now I know what Love is. Back then, he hadn't been the scorned lover willfully dashing himself on the rocks.
It's all so profanely foolish now.
The shock in him subsides, winding down. Ignis shuts the door behind him; there's no need for anyone else to bear witness. If Noct's gone and sought him out like this, then the suffocation of the moment is a privilege he can enjoy in all of its horribly emphatic misery. ]
Isn't it blatant enough? Do you really need me to say it?
[ His voice is calm and clear when he poses the conditional, even when he's talking around the awful desperation writhing in him. Stiffly, Ignis drapes a hand on the desk, fist closing over the wood. With his ambitions sieved down to nothing, there are no conditionals. There's nothing else to lose. ]
Highness. What do you think you'll accomplish by rummaging through someone else's belongings?
But the veneer's already cracked, hurt shining on through. It refracts through him as light on glass does, his glare shattered and misting up. It's unbearable. Ignis's hand snags on the doorframe, gone rigid, the bones in his knuckles aching taut. There's nothing else to do for misjudging distance when detaching himself didn't undo the damage. If he handled this earlier on in their relationship, still fresh and newfangled, perhaps that would've mitigated the worst of it. (Except that's a lie, isn't it? Except that Ignis never does anything in half-measures. After swearing fealty to Noctis, he'd never devote himself so irresolutely.)
A lot can change, given time. There's no reason he shouldn't have expected the same to apply here. Noct has never been anything but resilient, even when battered down and lost, grasping for control. It's the same rhetoric governing Latin, studying a dead language no one else speaks, going so far to hunt down a jeweler to fine-tune the ring, paycheck after paycheck poured into it. Ignis is sentimental to an unjustifiably hurtful degree, so it only makes sense he'd be heavy-handed with his affections.
If Noctis thinks back far enough, maybe he remembers Virgil's works, the eight eclogue he'd covered in what might as well be a lifetime ago: the anecdote of the shepherd proclaiming his tenderness for his beloved, already promised away to someone else. The passage was a touch so brusque that he'd wanted Noctis to smile at the despotism of it in recall, poke fun at a yearning so selfish that it'd expect reciprocation or hurl itself down against the waves and drown. Nunc scio quid sit Amor. Now I know what Love is. Back then, he hadn't been the scorned lover willfully dashing himself on the rocks.
It's all so profanely foolish now.
The shock in him subsides, winding down. Ignis shuts the door behind him; there's no need for anyone else to bear witness. If Noct's gone and sought him out like this, then the suffocation of the moment is a privilege he can enjoy in all of its horribly emphatic misery. ]
Isn't it blatant enough? Do you really need me to say it?
[ His voice is calm and clear when he poses the conditional, even when he's talking around the awful desperation writhing in him. Stiffly, Ignis drapes a hand on the desk, fist closing over the wood. With his ambitions sieved down to nothing, there are no conditionals. There's nothing else to lose. ]
Highness. What do you think you'll accomplish by rummaging through someone else's belongings?
Say it.
[ Say it, because he needs to hear it, because in his own pain and loneliness he wants to hear Ignis speak it, because they're both self-destructive in their love for each other and Noctis can barely breathe through the way the unspoken sentiment throttles him, another demon to add to his nightmares. If Ignis had chosen the honourable way out, the sensible way, then Noctis will rend it to shreds and tear through the well-meaning lies put up between them.
Does he truly not love him anymore? It haunts him, how Ignis had maintained his dispassion from the moment Noctis had told him up until now, ten, fifteen, twenty of a thousand papercuts Noctis allows because he doesn't know how else to take it. His love cannot be promised to another when it still belongs to Ignis, cruel but not capricious, vicious but painfully unceasing, a noose around Ignis' neck and his own.
He swallows, and perhaps if he were older and more experienced he would be more adept that masking the pain, the heartbeat short of capitulation -- say you love me again -- and if he were a better person he would have held himself back, given Ignis a way out the way he had done so for him.
But here they are, Noctis ruthless in his pursuit of him, eyes the color of a midnight storm, raging and roiling. His hand closes around the box, and Noctis finds that he has never hated that word more. Highness, he says, like his name hasn't fallen from his lips like desperate prayers, like his name hasn't invoked absolution, provoked a litany of confessions as their bodies moved together, cleaved to the other and made whole.
Now, now he's empty and wanting and his words are brittle. He cannot claim what is not his, but what if they once belonged to him? Ignis' heart, and this, too, this road not taken, an abandoned possibility. He raises his voice, because all they do is hurt each other, but what else is there to do but bring the knife down? ]
Say it, Ignis!
[ His voice cracks on his name, his fingers digging into the precious box so hard that he fears he will shatter it. ]
[ Say it, because he needs to hear it, because in his own pain and loneliness he wants to hear Ignis speak it, because they're both self-destructive in their love for each other and Noctis can barely breathe through the way the unspoken sentiment throttles him, another demon to add to his nightmares. If Ignis had chosen the honourable way out, the sensible way, then Noctis will rend it to shreds and tear through the well-meaning lies put up between them.
Does he truly not love him anymore? It haunts him, how Ignis had maintained his dispassion from the moment Noctis had told him up until now, ten, fifteen, twenty of a thousand papercuts Noctis allows because he doesn't know how else to take it. His love cannot be promised to another when it still belongs to Ignis, cruel but not capricious, vicious but painfully unceasing, a noose around Ignis' neck and his own.
He swallows, and perhaps if he were older and more experienced he would be more adept that masking the pain, the heartbeat short of capitulation -- say you love me again -- and if he were a better person he would have held himself back, given Ignis a way out the way he had done so for him.
But here they are, Noctis ruthless in his pursuit of him, eyes the color of a midnight storm, raging and roiling. His hand closes around the box, and Noctis finds that he has never hated that word more. Highness, he says, like his name hasn't fallen from his lips like desperate prayers, like his name hasn't invoked absolution, provoked a litany of confessions as their bodies moved together, cleaved to the other and made whole.
Now, now he's empty and wanting and his words are brittle. He cannot claim what is not his, but what if they once belonged to him? Ignis' heart, and this, too, this road not taken, an abandoned possibility. He raises his voice, because all they do is hurt each other, but what else is there to do but bring the knife down? ]
Say it, Ignis!
[ His voice cracks on his name, his fingers digging into the precious box so hard that he fears he will shatter it. ]
[ It's selfish to play keep-away with his anger, isn't it?
Then yes, he's angry. Yes, he's irascible and just barely holding himself together when Noctis combusts in a short-circuiting wave of poorly-masked outrage, trying to force his compliance. It hardly needs externalization, all of this frustration running rampant that Ignis has carefully bottled up and sealed away; he's seething mad and riled and well and truly upset, enough that slowly extricating himself from Noct's life strikes him as a better option than waiting for him to the last, poignant blow to fissure him open. It may have all started out of obligation, but now it's become much more than that.
A score of illegitimate children, some bastardized, unhappy marriageā€” surely Noctis understands more than anyone to grow up lonely and smothered in turns without vicious rumor coming into play. It's no way to live for a child, reared up in whatever environment will coax on self-hatred, so this is the easiest way out. This is the only way out, the only one he's remotely complacent with.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Ignis doesn't let the burn of anger invasively carve its way over his face, but tiredness, like he's grown exhausted of the ploy of it. Noctis calls him by name, and it's not stupid exaggeration to think himself responsible for the way he's caved in, his hand white-knuckled on the desk. It's the kind of exhaustion that doesn't leave, even after a full night's rest, condensing in on itself. ]
What good would that do? Would that truly help you?
[ All these languorous, awful questions might get him somewhere if he just keeps asking until he's compelled to answer, taking away the soft warmth of compassion until the only thing left is this seeping coldness, devouring and ill-managed. His voice sounds so odd, unchanging in pitch or tone, as he avoids the trajectory of Noct's wrath, making a show of straightening up, like he's preparing for a proper conversation instead of this messy, one-sided pretense at one. ]
I can't begin to say how sorry I am for hurting you. I never intended to cause you so much pain.
Then yes, he's angry. Yes, he's irascible and just barely holding himself together when Noctis combusts in a short-circuiting wave of poorly-masked outrage, trying to force his compliance. It hardly needs externalization, all of this frustration running rampant that Ignis has carefully bottled up and sealed away; he's seething mad and riled and well and truly upset, enough that slowly extricating himself from Noct's life strikes him as a better option than waiting for him to the last, poignant blow to fissure him open. It may have all started out of obligation, but now it's become much more than that.
A score of illegitimate children, some bastardized, unhappy marriageā€” surely Noctis understands more than anyone to grow up lonely and smothered in turns without vicious rumor coming into play. It's no way to live for a child, reared up in whatever environment will coax on self-hatred, so this is the easiest way out. This is the only way out, the only one he's remotely complacent with.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Ignis doesn't let the burn of anger invasively carve its way over his face, but tiredness, like he's grown exhausted of the ploy of it. Noctis calls him by name, and it's not stupid exaggeration to think himself responsible for the way he's caved in, his hand white-knuckled on the desk. It's the kind of exhaustion that doesn't leave, even after a full night's rest, condensing in on itself. ]
What good would that do? Would that truly help you?
[ All these languorous, awful questions might get him somewhere if he just keeps asking until he's compelled to answer, taking away the soft warmth of compassion until the only thing left is this seeping coldness, devouring and ill-managed. His voice sounds so odd, unchanging in pitch or tone, as he avoids the trajectory of Noct's wrath, making a show of straightening up, like he's preparing for a proper conversation instead of this messy, one-sided pretense at one. ]
I can't begin to say how sorry I am for hurting you. I never intended to cause you so much pain.
[ I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry. All of this and more, the first and last bastion of a lover's defenses. All of this, hollow sentiment that does nothing to alleviate the pain shared by the both of them, and here Ignis looks at him, so beautifully, damnably dispassionate, he might as well be crafted by Michelangelo himself. He's half torn between laughing and laughing and laughing and lunging towards him, as if doing so could rend the pristine, perfect veneer asunder, digging into what Ignis has so jealously protected for himself.
He was wrong, he thinks now, as the deliberately calm questions sink in, designed to reiterate distance, not to allay. He hadn't lost Ignis the day he walked out of the apartment with his belongings carefully packed. He lost Ignis the moment he told him about Regis. That Noctis' suspicions of a similar hurt Ignis endures remains nebulous; white-knuckled fists on desks can have a world of interpretations, and perhaps if Noctis were more cynical he would have jumped right on them and cut the cord for good.
But he's a young man hopelessly in love, devastated and enraged in equal measure and he settles for a harsh bark of laughter, the sound so cruel and alien coming from him -- it's not a sound he's meant to make, shoulders wracked with something so close to a sob. Not quite, not quite. Princes don't cry.
He rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes, curled over the box now, as if protecting it bring everything back, as if he could smudge out all that's happened in the past few weeks. Sorry, he says, like it could stem the bleeding. ]
Did you get that from a book? What are you going to say next, "It's not you, it's me"? Do you think that helped? What good does that do?
[ He flings the unanswered questions back in his face, vicious and unruly and hurting, and he wants nothing more than to curl his hand around Ignis', right there on the desk. He wants nothing more than to provoke him, to see if there's more underneath that porcelain, tranquil mask. Ignis looks tired, a small voice observes, exhaustion set deep beyond the reach of the most cultivated front, which is the only reason why Noctis hasn't seen fit to brush past him and slam the door shut on this encounter.
Surely he must feel something. ] Tell me how this is so easy for you to do.
He was wrong, he thinks now, as the deliberately calm questions sink in, designed to reiterate distance, not to allay. He hadn't lost Ignis the day he walked out of the apartment with his belongings carefully packed. He lost Ignis the moment he told him about Regis. That Noctis' suspicions of a similar hurt Ignis endures remains nebulous; white-knuckled fists on desks can have a world of interpretations, and perhaps if Noctis were more cynical he would have jumped right on them and cut the cord for good.
But he's a young man hopelessly in love, devastated and enraged in equal measure and he settles for a harsh bark of laughter, the sound so cruel and alien coming from him -- it's not a sound he's meant to make, shoulders wracked with something so close to a sob. Not quite, not quite. Princes don't cry.
He rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes, curled over the box now, as if protecting it bring everything back, as if he could smudge out all that's happened in the past few weeks. Sorry, he says, like it could stem the bleeding. ]
Did you get that from a book? What are you going to say next, "It's not you, it's me"? Do you think that helped? What good does that do?
[ He flings the unanswered questions back in his face, vicious and unruly and hurting, and he wants nothing more than to curl his hand around Ignis', right there on the desk. He wants nothing more than to provoke him, to see if there's more underneath that porcelain, tranquil mask. Ignis looks tired, a small voice observes, exhaustion set deep beyond the reach of the most cultivated front, which is the only reason why Noctis hasn't seen fit to brush past him and slam the door shut on this encounter.
Surely he must feel something. ] Tell me how this is so easy for you to do.
[ Anything he says will set off a tremor; he couldn't injure Noctis worse than if he'd planned this down to colliding efficacy, the confrontation he'd been straining to avoid and how it'll dismantle him, mind flickering like a candle on the verge of being snuffed out. It's already ruining him, already in the process of unmaking his resolve, that Noct might give in more to sullen, moody ire than this distress as it comes thrashing awake and sears his voice. The next breath Ignis takes snags in his throat, damp and guttural, nerveless, momentarily struck dumb.
The worst part, though, is the laughter that issues out of Noctis shortly afterwards, the sharp dissolve into mirth when he demolishes the rest of his patience for the ragged heave of his hand against his eyelids, smudging out the nascent beginning of tears. It's just like this that he remembers Noctis has a tender throat; that all of him bruises so easily, that he's being wounded right now. The dozens and dozens of times before have proven that he's carrying those outlines still, however unseen, the places where he'd guided his hands and left his mark on Noctis, indelibly. He's perched on the precipice of something terrifyingly inscrutable, so vulnerable that Ignis speaks up at last, words scraping dry, harsher for it. ]
It's not. It wouldn't be fair to you if I approached you so halfheartedly.
[ He'd told himself it was enough just to be happy for such a short, short while. And it was, initially, absence numbing the sick jealousy that's rearing its head at the notion of Noctis pouring all of his affection onto someone else like it's inexhaustible, trapped by the ludicrousness of it. But this is why Ignis can't look away now, or else Noct'll realize just how long he's spent pining, the ache that lashes its way in, displaced in his own skin. This is, perhaps, what it is to gouge out his rank longing, keep it held right between his teeth. Noct is so young, shrinking down where he's folded on the seat, renouncing self-preservation. It still isn't too late for Ignis to go on his hands and knees and prostrate himself before the king, beg for Noct's hand in marriage when he's near-hysterical and closer to choking him than falling haplessly into his arms, but he won't. He won't even fight it, which is where the crux of agony starts. If that's the case, thenā€”
His palm finds Noct's shoulder, clamping down tight. Warm, even though he's insufferably cold otherwise. ]
You haven't been sleeping well.
[ This is the first time he's touched him in weeks, wrist so close that his heartbeat pulses in tandem with the one enshrined in Noctis's throat. ]
The worst part, though, is the laughter that issues out of Noctis shortly afterwards, the sharp dissolve into mirth when he demolishes the rest of his patience for the ragged heave of his hand against his eyelids, smudging out the nascent beginning of tears. It's just like this that he remembers Noctis has a tender throat; that all of him bruises so easily, that he's being wounded right now. The dozens and dozens of times before have proven that he's carrying those outlines still, however unseen, the places where he'd guided his hands and left his mark on Noctis, indelibly. He's perched on the precipice of something terrifyingly inscrutable, so vulnerable that Ignis speaks up at last, words scraping dry, harsher for it. ]
It's not. It wouldn't be fair to you if I approached you so halfheartedly.
[ He'd told himself it was enough just to be happy for such a short, short while. And it was, initially, absence numbing the sick jealousy that's rearing its head at the notion of Noctis pouring all of his affection onto someone else like it's inexhaustible, trapped by the ludicrousness of it. But this is why Ignis can't look away now, or else Noct'll realize just how long he's spent pining, the ache that lashes its way in, displaced in his own skin. This is, perhaps, what it is to gouge out his rank longing, keep it held right between his teeth. Noct is so young, shrinking down where he's folded on the seat, renouncing self-preservation. It still isn't too late for Ignis to go on his hands and knees and prostrate himself before the king, beg for Noct's hand in marriage when he's near-hysterical and closer to choking him than falling haplessly into his arms, but he won't. He won't even fight it, which is where the crux of agony starts. If that's the case, thenā€”
His palm finds Noct's shoulder, clamping down tight. Warm, even though he's insufferably cold otherwise. ]
You haven't been sleeping well.
[ This is the first time he's touched him in weeks, wrist so close that his heartbeat pulses in tandem with the one enshrined in Noctis's throat. ]
Edited 2017-12-17 12:57 (UTC)
[ It's not, and Noctis would find it impossible to believe him if it isn't for the rawness of his response, sandpaper-rough and raw, the formal cadence scrubbed out in the seconds between his last questions and Noctis' impassioned outburst. It seems like neither one of them are ready for this mess of a conversation, and Noctis notes, with a measure of tired spite, that Ignis' collected front seems to be fraying at the seams. That he doesn't seem as immune to sentiment as he looks -- and sometimes appearances are fucking everything.
It's not fair. It's not fair at all; to Noctis, and especially to Ignis. Ignis, who had poured in so much for this ring, the meaning behind which he wouldn't yet say, but deep in the depths of memory he vaguely recollects shepherds and foolishness, even if the specific threads of it evade him still. Love, he thinks. He knows enough of latin to pick out that word, and his eyelids prickle and burn all the same. If he had approached Noctis halfheartedly, would it have hurt less? Would Noctis have learned not to pour all of himself to a venture that would never have a happy ending nonetheless? If Ignis had been less heavy-handed with his affections, if Noctis had not so recklessly, so passionately fell into him the way he did, would they have this moment still?
Irrelevant thoughts. Ignis would never have applied himself so half-heartedly, and Noctis would have given his heart to him all the same, and still be the worse off for it. There is a profound cruelty in Ignis' kindness, in the love he bears for Noctis that the prince is aware he hasn't yet noticed. It's right here in the warmth of his hand, paralysing Noctis, stilling the instinctive, prideful desire to wrench free of him. It's as if Ignis' very own affections corrode the sense of his own self-preservation, renders Noctis so helpless and small before him, his weaknesses displayed in full view. He looks away.
He hates this. He hates how he is with him, when that simple observation steals the incandescence of his rage, and Noctis is still under his hand, so touch-starved that he would let him continue this farce, so silently yearning for something, anything, that he would willingly accept this touch, nerves raw and heart aching for what he can never have again. ]
Neither have you. [ And he wonders if he suffers from the same, already accustomed to the heat and warmth of a willing body, of long limbs and tender kisses stolen in the deep of night, sweet whispers and even sweeter touches, intoxicating pleasure always within easy reach and love even more so.
His hand comes to rest over his, tentative at first, and he steels himself for the inevitable retreat. He shifts, his cheek pressing against Ignis' wrist as he remembers the kisses he'd lavished over it, soft and chaste as he sampled him, memorised him. ] I hope nobody else ever falls in love with you.
[ You, so capable of tearing down kingdoms with your kindness. Your love is what slaughters kings. ]
It's not fair. It's not fair at all; to Noctis, and especially to Ignis. Ignis, who had poured in so much for this ring, the meaning behind which he wouldn't yet say, but deep in the depths of memory he vaguely recollects shepherds and foolishness, even if the specific threads of it evade him still. Love, he thinks. He knows enough of latin to pick out that word, and his eyelids prickle and burn all the same. If he had approached Noctis halfheartedly, would it have hurt less? Would Noctis have learned not to pour all of himself to a venture that would never have a happy ending nonetheless? If Ignis had been less heavy-handed with his affections, if Noctis had not so recklessly, so passionately fell into him the way he did, would they have this moment still?
Irrelevant thoughts. Ignis would never have applied himself so half-heartedly, and Noctis would have given his heart to him all the same, and still be the worse off for it. There is a profound cruelty in Ignis' kindness, in the love he bears for Noctis that the prince is aware he hasn't yet noticed. It's right here in the warmth of his hand, paralysing Noctis, stilling the instinctive, prideful desire to wrench free of him. It's as if Ignis' very own affections corrode the sense of his own self-preservation, renders Noctis so helpless and small before him, his weaknesses displayed in full view. He looks away.
He hates this. He hates how he is with him, when that simple observation steals the incandescence of his rage, and Noctis is still under his hand, so touch-starved that he would let him continue this farce, so silently yearning for something, anything, that he would willingly accept this touch, nerves raw and heart aching for what he can never have again. ]
Neither have you. [ And he wonders if he suffers from the same, already accustomed to the heat and warmth of a willing body, of long limbs and tender kisses stolen in the deep of night, sweet whispers and even sweeter touches, intoxicating pleasure always within easy reach and love even more so.
His hand comes to rest over his, tentative at first, and he steels himself for the inevitable retreat. He shifts, his cheek pressing against Ignis' wrist as he remembers the kisses he'd lavished over it, soft and chaste as he sampled him, memorised him. ] I hope nobody else ever falls in love with you.
[ You, so capable of tearing down kingdoms with your kindness. Your love is what slaughters kings. ]
[ Realistically, keeping up appearances could only go on for so long. It's not hard to draw conclusions given how much time he's spent in Noctis's apartment (and company) as of late, how he's not careful enough to keep just enough distance when their hands brush or his shoulder is angled just shy of Noct's at the farmer's market, or in the checkout line, or maintaining a careful vigil around the batting cage with Prompto or Gladio in tow and jotting down the averages while the rest of their merry band strike out or hit home runs, respectively. Word gets around, and Ignis's natural first course of action is making headway for the Citadel to break the news to Noct's father.
It's been a few days since then, and he's entirely calm and composed, like dating the heir apparent is the most benign thing in the world. (In some respects, it is; there's no challenge to overcome when he's known him all of his life, familiar in a context entirely divorced from duty and obligation.) Currently, he's distracted with cleaning and filleting the halibut in the sink. Shaving off the skin and carving it into sections is thoughtless work; paring off fins and scales, sashaying cuts through the ribs in long, slicing strokes. The pan's searing the meat, and he's whittling away at the paunchy cheek of one fish head when the sound of jangling keys alerts him.
Noct's footsteps carry a particular cadence, an informality hard-pressed to be extracted; just like Ignis, he's a creature of habit, padding with the same casual irreverence he dons all too well. ]
Welcome back.
[ Ignis's posture remains neat and uniform, only betraying a hint of tension in the sudden lapse of the cut, knife dragging a little too heavily on the cutting board, the sound dissonant. But then he's set the blade aside, turning the heat on the stove to a low, low flame, moving to rinse his hands off the scales. ]
Of course. You needn't ask. [ The build-up is the portent of something awful, when Noctis rarely prompts him like this, strange and resigned, but Ignis is as unflappable as ever, no hesitance bruising at his throat when he speaks up. For all that he's wound up right now, braced and cautious, he's never been particularly indecisive. ] What seems to be the issue?
It's been a few days since then, and he's entirely calm and composed, like dating the heir apparent is the most benign thing in the world. (In some respects, it is; there's no challenge to overcome when he's known him all of his life, familiar in a context entirely divorced from duty and obligation.) Currently, he's distracted with cleaning and filleting the halibut in the sink. Shaving off the skin and carving it into sections is thoughtless work; paring off fins and scales, sashaying cuts through the ribs in long, slicing strokes. The pan's searing the meat, and he's whittling away at the paunchy cheek of one fish head when the sound of jangling keys alerts him.
Noct's footsteps carry a particular cadence, an informality hard-pressed to be extracted; just like Ignis, he's a creature of habit, padding with the same casual irreverence he dons all too well. ]
Welcome back.
[ Ignis's posture remains neat and uniform, only betraying a hint of tension in the sudden lapse of the cut, knife dragging a little too heavily on the cutting board, the sound dissonant. But then he's set the blade aside, turning the heat on the stove to a low, low flame, moving to rinse his hands off the scales. ]
Of course. You needn't ask. [ The build-up is the portent of something awful, when Noctis rarely prompts him like this, strange and resigned, but Ignis is as unflappable as ever, no hesitance bruising at his throat when he speaks up. For all that he's wound up right now, braced and cautious, he's never been particularly indecisive. ] What seems to be the issue?
[ from here. ]
[ what a jerk! noctis spares the phone a few glances now and then when the 'read' sign pops up, then realises that ignis is making a point, and noctis smiles to himself before he resumes the game and waits for him. he's in the middle of sneaking past the alien nearby, and george perks up from her snooze to pad over to him, sniffing around his calves. ]
I hate aliens.
[ noctis tells him tersely (no he doesn't), curses when the alien gets the jump on him, and then tosses the controller to the couch. he can't even be in a bad mood when ignis is here, and especially with the smell of freshly baked bread. sandwiches! ] You baked the bread at home?
[ what a jerk! noctis spares the phone a few glances now and then when the 'read' sign pops up, then realises that ignis is making a point, and noctis smiles to himself before he resumes the game and waits for him. he's in the middle of sneaking past the alien nearby, and george perks up from her snooze to pad over to him, sniffing around his calves. ]
I hate aliens.
[ noctis tells him tersely (no he doesn't), curses when the alien gets the jump on him, and then tosses the controller to the couch. he can't even be in a bad mood when ignis is here, and especially with the smell of freshly baked bread. sandwiches! ] You baked the bread at home?
[ It doesn't help that Noctis is in turn more than willing, easily brushing their hands together, straying closer than a prince should to his chamberlain, smudging the lines in his youthful recklessness -- he is, after all, one not quite accustomed to obfuscation when he's happy, and with Ignis, he's very, very happy. With the appropriate disguises they could pretend to be a normal couple out and about, and perhaps Noctis had been too careless, too intoxicated with Ignis and enamored with the warmth of his touch, the smooth cadence of his voice, just a little ragged when Noctis does the things that he likes, kisses him a particular way. Even when Noctis offered Ignis a fat, plump strawberry that day at the farmer's market, secure in his anonymity, and how the rest of that day went, heavy with love and desire, affection twined with everything they did together after that.
Noctis looks to Ignis first even when they're out with Gladio and Prompto, sidles closer to him than he does the others even if he evidently cares for them all, but perhaps he should have understood that good things never last. Perhaps he should have marked the countdown to when such little things will catch in the wind, whispered into the highest of echelons. Dad had not seemed surprised when he'd broken the news to him -- only sad.
He doesn't immediately respond, already having come up with his own ways of reading Ignis. It's true that Ignis has an impressive self-control, always in command of all faculties and keenly aware of what happens around him, schooling his own reactions with a discipline that puts him head and shoulders above the rest in the Citadel. Ignis is the finest choice, handsome and charming and learned and entirely capable -- and he would make a man or woman happy one day.
It's just, Dad said gently. Not Noctis.
He swallows, leaning against the side of the doorway and looks down at his feet, aware of the tension, however minute, that sets in the elegant line of Ignis' shoulders. The man cuts up fish with a grace so polished he would put some top-ranked chefs to shame, and when Ignis briskly prompts, he shifts at the dread that coils in the pit of his stomach. ]
Dad knows. About us. I don't know who told him, but --
Noctis looks to Ignis first even when they're out with Gladio and Prompto, sidles closer to him than he does the others even if he evidently cares for them all, but perhaps he should have understood that good things never last. Perhaps he should have marked the countdown to when such little things will catch in the wind, whispered into the highest of echelons. Dad had not seemed surprised when he'd broken the news to him -- only sad.
He doesn't immediately respond, already having come up with his own ways of reading Ignis. It's true that Ignis has an impressive self-control, always in command of all faculties and keenly aware of what happens around him, schooling his own reactions with a discipline that puts him head and shoulders above the rest in the Citadel. Ignis is the finest choice, handsome and charming and learned and entirely capable -- and he would make a man or woman happy one day.
It's just, Dad said gently. Not Noctis.
He swallows, leaning against the side of the doorway and looks down at his feet, aware of the tension, however minute, that sets in the elegant line of Ignis' shoulders. The man cuts up fish with a grace so polished he would put some top-ranked chefs to shame, and when Ignis briskly prompts, he shifts at the dread that coils in the pit of his stomach. ]
Dad knows. About us. I don't know who told him, but --
[ This is tempting too much from Ignis, whose reflexes meander between hairline and immediate to slow and lenient. Add exhaustion to the mix and he would've slept that whole bout of morning wood off, woken up groggy and ill-to-please, the same way he is when denied the several million daily cups of coffee or so he needs to live as a base requisite, or when he's truly upset, which are occasions fortunately few and far between.
Rest assured, though, he certainly wasn't upset with Noctis staking his claim to him hours before, poised and demanding, leaving no question about who held the reins. So many people often mistake Ignis for calling the shots when authoritativeness finds its way into tone, but he's a tactician by trade, not a born leader. When push comes to shove, control is less about demands just anyone can make and more about who assumes power even when the chips are down and all bets are off, wielding authority with all due diligence.
So it's nice to get run aground just like this, when Noctis demands all of him and leaves him stirring fitfully the morning after. All this shimmying as Noct clings to his spine incites a frown that's quick to fade at the warmth that immediately pursues him. The mouth closing around his shoulder earns a sigh, but the fingers brazenly insinuating themselves around his dick earn a wet gasp tugging its way on out of his mouth. When Noctis's fingers assume an easier stroke around the base of his cock, knuckles brushing against his pelvis, and he groans emphaticallyā€” louder, pressing into the constriction of his fist goading him on, the underside of his dick beating out a fairly incriminating, fairly vulgar pulse into his grip.
Thumbing over the head of his cock is going too far, though. Ignis's knee immediately lurches to snap up over that offending limb to trap it in one place, breathing coming a little more winded for it, heavy in his mouth as his head threatens to loll off the pillow. That searching finger is too cohesive in the glide, too close to what he'd want if he wasn't literally unconscious, and his arm distractedly comes down, heavy with the plodding torpor of exhaustion, seeking it out. Noct's voice is at his ear, tickling at the cartilage, and typically, he's not the sort of man that wanks off for the hell of it, especially given his arrangements as of late. But his fingers are still clambering down, only to hit the roadblock of Noctis's fingers and nudge up against them. For a sloppy ten seconds or so, he makes a go at prying them off before promptly giving up on the venture, back to burrowing his face against the pillow. Never mind. Strangled in sleep, he's not really conscious enough to bat an offending hand off and replace it with his own when he can't remember why he'd been so compelled to remove it in the first place. ]
Rest assured, though, he certainly wasn't upset with Noctis staking his claim to him hours before, poised and demanding, leaving no question about who held the reins. So many people often mistake Ignis for calling the shots when authoritativeness finds its way into tone, but he's a tactician by trade, not a born leader. When push comes to shove, control is less about demands just anyone can make and more about who assumes power even when the chips are down and all bets are off, wielding authority with all due diligence.
So it's nice to get run aground just like this, when Noctis demands all of him and leaves him stirring fitfully the morning after. All this shimmying as Noct clings to his spine incites a frown that's quick to fade at the warmth that immediately pursues him. The mouth closing around his shoulder earns a sigh, but the fingers brazenly insinuating themselves around his dick earn a wet gasp tugging its way on out of his mouth. When Noctis's fingers assume an easier stroke around the base of his cock, knuckles brushing against his pelvis, and he groans emphaticallyā€” louder, pressing into the constriction of his fist goading him on, the underside of his dick beating out a fairly incriminating, fairly vulgar pulse into his grip.
Thumbing over the head of his cock is going too far, though. Ignis's knee immediately lurches to snap up over that offending limb to trap it in one place, breathing coming a little more winded for it, heavy in his mouth as his head threatens to loll off the pillow. That searching finger is too cohesive in the glide, too close to what he'd want if he wasn't literally unconscious, and his arm distractedly comes down, heavy with the plodding torpor of exhaustion, seeking it out. Noct's voice is at his ear, tickling at the cartilage, and typically, he's not the sort of man that wanks off for the hell of it, especially given his arrangements as of late. But his fingers are still clambering down, only to hit the roadblock of Noctis's fingers and nudge up against them. For a sloppy ten seconds or so, he makes a go at prying them off before promptly giving up on the venture, back to burrowing his face against the pillow. Never mind. Strangled in sleep, he's not really conscious enough to bat an offending hand off and replace it with his own when he can't remember why he'd been so compelled to remove it in the first place. ]
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