[ Ignis doesn't ask for help and Noctis doesn't offer. He packs up the entirety of his life into one borderline duffel bag and the minimal technology he scrimped and saved to obtain in another. The car ride back is quiet, an awkward silence he imagines that the real Noctis and him wouldn't have shared. Don't you have someone to drive you around, he wants to ask, but realizes a moment later that it was likely him. If the reports he'd read and listened to were accurate, then it was Ignis who took on most of the driving. So, no. He didn't have someone to.
Of course.
They settle him in a room that's decorated, furnished. He likes it well enough at first and then Gladiolus comes in and touches over one of the spines of his books, pushing it open with a crooked smile. Wow, Noct really went all out, huh? Even where you would've put it. They both realize at the same time what a mistake that is, Gladiolus because he's comparing them and Ignis, because now he wants to go through ever single Astral damned book and figure out if he's put anything in them. If they're the books from before, he has a feeling he did.
You should go, Ignis says stiffly and thanks whoever is listening that guilt apparently still works on the man; he murmurs his apology and makes an exit. A relief. As it turns out, there are things pressed in the pages. Flowers, notes, he thinks, what feels like two movie stubs. He should have known; he keeps every article about important, victorious dates in Noctis' life in the notebooks where he writes about his chaotic dreams. It's a habit left over from when he was himself. The problem is there's no context for any of this. The flowers are tucked back in their spots, but the assortment of bits of paper he finds are placed into a box and tucked under his bed.
Sometimes, when he can't sleep, he runs over them with his fingers, trying to identify by edges and torn bits, trying to figure out where they came from. It's especially useful on nights where he has therapy, or is being forced to have doctors pick and poke at him. It's for the greater good, but he hates the fussing. Noctis, shockingly, doesn't fuss. He lingers, quiet and sad and concerned at points. He comes to Ignis with questions and treats him like he's a real person and not like he's a ghost walking around in the shell of a real one.
When the offer comes, it's not unexpected, but it is jarring. He asks for a day to consider and then everything moves ridiculously fast. When it's finished and Ignis watches the man who is clearly Noctis step out from behind the curtain, there's a moment of awful, crushing disappointment. He'd been warned - hell, he'd been in therapy specifically for this, told that it was unlikely it'd work. The loss of hope is a crushing thing all the same. Not recognizing Noctis is a secondary one nipping at its heels. ]
Blessedly, no. Whatever was done took to me with minimal issue.
[ Even the ache of his hip was gone, where he'd been slammed into a brick wall during a battle and now it constantly felt as if it was going to slip out of joint. Noctis fixed all of it. ]
You're-- handsome. [ It slips out, soft and sort of shocked. He knew that he'd have good taste, of course, and he's heard the prince now king described as handsome, or a thousand other adjectives. It's one thing to have an idea (dark hair, scruff, blue eyes, that's not helpful at all) and something else entirely to see him and realize that his inadequate memories wouldn't have come even close to summoning a version of him to think about. He's terribly handsome and looks just as soft as Ignis expected. Soft, like he's full of affection and worry and nervousness, like he's not the leader of a fucking country. It's absurd. (He's flustered, too. ] It worked, as far as I'm able to tell.
no subject
Of course.
They settle him in a room that's decorated, furnished. He likes it well enough at first and then Gladiolus comes in and touches over one of the spines of his books, pushing it open with a crooked smile. Wow, Noct really went all out, huh? Even where you would've put it. They both realize at the same time what a mistake that is, Gladiolus because he's comparing them and Ignis, because now he wants to go through ever single Astral damned book and figure out if he's put anything in them. If they're the books from before, he has a feeling he did.
You should go, Ignis says stiffly and thanks whoever is listening that guilt apparently still works on the man; he murmurs his apology and makes an exit. A relief. As it turns out, there are things pressed in the pages. Flowers, notes, he thinks, what feels like two movie stubs. He should have known; he keeps every article about important, victorious dates in Noctis' life in the notebooks where he writes about his chaotic dreams. It's a habit left over from when he was himself. The problem is there's no context for any of this. The flowers are tucked back in their spots, but the assortment of bits of paper he finds are placed into a box and tucked under his bed.
Sometimes, when he can't sleep, he runs over them with his fingers, trying to identify by edges and torn bits, trying to figure out where they came from. It's especially useful on nights where he has therapy, or is being forced to have doctors pick and poke at him. It's for the greater good, but he hates the fussing. Noctis, shockingly, doesn't fuss. He lingers, quiet and sad and concerned at points. He comes to Ignis with questions and treats him like he's a real person and not like he's a ghost walking around in the shell of a real one.
When the offer comes, it's not unexpected, but it is jarring. He asks for a day to consider and then everything moves ridiculously fast. When it's finished and Ignis watches the man who is clearly Noctis step out from behind the curtain, there's a moment of awful, crushing disappointment. He'd been warned - hell, he'd been in therapy specifically for this, told that it was unlikely it'd work. The loss of hope is a crushing thing all the same. Not recognizing Noctis is a secondary one nipping at its heels. ]
Blessedly, no. Whatever was done took to me with minimal issue.
[ Even the ache of his hip was gone, where he'd been slammed into a brick wall during a battle and now it constantly felt as if it was going to slip out of joint. Noctis fixed all of it. ]
You're-- handsome. [ It slips out, soft and sort of shocked. He knew that he'd have good taste, of course, and he's heard the prince now king described as handsome, or a thousand other adjectives. It's one thing to have an idea (dark hair, scruff, blue eyes, that's not helpful at all) and something else entirely to see him and realize that his inadequate memories wouldn't have come even close to summoning a version of him to think about. He's terribly handsome and looks just as soft as Ignis expected. Soft, like he's full of affection and worry and nervousness, like he's not the leader of a fucking country. It's absurd. (He's flustered, too. ] It worked, as far as I'm able to tell.