Work Text:
Ignis Scientia has never brewed so much tea in his life.
He wonders, midway through his fifth cup of the afternoon, if he has transcended the confines of human genetics and has discovered the next evolutionary step, having turned himself into a gangly sack of stewed mint, honey, and a disgusting amount of mucus held together by pure strength of will. His supply of tissues ran out two hours ago. It’s all bathroom tissue paper now, shoved in every pocket and folded up in his briefcase, and Ignis isn’t certain how much longer he can keep this up. Surely until the weekend at least, but that isn’t for another three days.
He looks down at his schedule, winces at the flare of a headache in the back of his skull, and takes another swig of weak tea.
A briefing with Noctis next, and then two hours of meetings with the agricultural and intel advisors. Ignis can do this. He lets a pain reliever drop into the sloshing contents of his poor excuse for a body and rises from his chair. For a moment, the world goes sideways, and Ignis has to hold onto the back of his seat to right himself.
He’s fine. When he gets home, he can draft tomorrow’s reports lying down, then curl up in his blankets and pretend that unseasonable colds only happen to other people.
The distance to the elevator is impossibly vast. Ignis makes it, barely, and stands close to the corner of the elevator so he can surreptitiously lean against the wall. He takes another sip of tea from his thermos. Holds back the lurching of his stomach as the elevator rockets downward. Tries to breathe.
His car is up a small slope, parked behind a pillar, and Ignis almost despairs. It takes him ten minutes to make it to the driver’s seat, where he piles in, places his head on the steering wheel, and coughs wetly for a solid three minutes.
An alarm rings on his phone. His appointment with Noctis should have started by now. He swipes on his phone, and accidentally hits his contacts. Noctis. King Regis’ clerk’s office. Gladio. Prompto.
He stops at the fifth name on his list. He looks up at his red, puffy eyes in the rearview mirror, and something in the sopping, fluttering recesses of his chest gives way. He presses the number listed as “Ma,” and holds the phone to his ear, long-distance charges be damned.
His mother picks up on the sixth ring. “Ignis?” Her voice is soft, familiar, and so full of concern that Ignis forgets that he’s technically a full-grown man of nineteen and a half and sobs into the phone.
“Mother,” he says. “I think I’m dying.”
Tick. Tick tick tick-tick-tick.
Ignis opens his eyes. His forehead is pressed to the cool glass of his car window, and there’s a hand outside, fingers curled like a claw. Whoever it is taps the window two more times, then waves so quickly that Ignis’ eyes ache trying to follow their movement.
“Specs,” says a voice he recognizes. “Specs, open the door.”
Noctis. The voice belongs to Noctis. Why is he outside? Doesn’t Ignis have a briefing with him today? He jerks upright, groans at the pain this causes to every organ in his body, and unlocks the door. It swings open, letting in a gust of cool air.
“Oh, shit,” says Noct. “You do look bad.”
“Noctis,” Ignis says. His voice is remarkably low. When did that happen? Good gods, it’s like a baritone. “I have the notes for your briefing in my suitcase. Allow me…” He reaches for his briefcase, and Noct snorts.
“Small suitcase, Ignis. Scoot over, I’m driving you home.”
“Not on your life, highness,” Ignis slurs. “Or mine. I’ve seen you drive, and I. I have a meeting with the prince.”
“Yep, and I’m gonna drive you there,” Noctis says. He leans down and smiles encouragingly, the way he does when he’s discovered some private joke that Ignis will have to hear about for the next two months.
“Bless you, Noctis,” Ignis says, and oozes onto the passenger’s seat. Noct gets in, shoves a plastic bag under his legs, and digs through it for a case of hand wipes. He runs a wipe over the wheel, and flashes Ignis an apologetic look.
“How on Eos did you think to find me here?” Ignis asks, as Noct reverses out of the space without crashing into the pillar. A minor miracle, to be sure.
“Your mom called,” Noct says. “She, uh. She said you sounded kind of out of it.”
Ignis tries to remember the conversation with his mother, but the last hour is a discordant blur, all sound and sharp smells and oceans of tea. “I’m sure I’ll be fine in a moment,” Ignis says.
“Sure, man.” Noct looks at him sidelong. “Your mom was kind of… intense… about you getting some sleep.”
“I love her,” Ignis whispers faintly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. Noctis gives him a look thick with worry and more than a little amusement, and runs his hand through Ignis’ sweat-damp bangs.
Time unfolds itself again, warping and flexing around the heavy pressure in Ignis’ sinuses and the clanging of his temples, and then Noctis’ arms are wrapping around his shoulders, his breath in his ear, a grunt of discomfort as Noctis realizes that he’s put all of Ignis’ weight on his bad leg. They hobble to the elevator of Noctis’ apartment complex together, and when Ignis sees the trash bag full of fast food cartons next to Noct’s door, he lunges for it without a second thought.
“Oh, hell no,” Noct says, and drags Ignis past the bag, past a sink full of unwashed dishes, a table full of unread reports. “You’re going to bed.”
The bed is unmade, and there’s a fox plushie shoved under one of the pillows, but it’s blessedly cool and soft and everything Ignis has ever wanted in his short, miserable life on earth.
“If I could have an Ebony,” Ignis mutters, as Noct flaps the bedsheets and lets them settle over his burning skin, “I can get to work on those… on the agricultural…”
“Nope. You’re gonna take some cold medicine,” Noct says, “then soup, and we’re gonna watch those movies you like. The ones with all the dad jokes no one else thinks are funny.”
“Underappreciated classics.” Ignis’ voice sounds distant in his own ears.
“That’s right,” Noct says. “You tell ‘em, Iggy.”
His hand is on Ignis’ hair again, stroking over his warm skin, and Ignis blinks up to find that the look in Noct’s eyes is almost fond. Gentle. Ignis realizes, in the midst of his fever-ridden, tea-fueled stupor, that he must have drifted off, because that’s the same look Ignis’ parents used to give one another, back when Ignis still lived in Tenebrae. His mother would reach out to his mum, or say something that made her laugh, or just look at her, and the look she gave back had the same slow, easy softness that Ignis can see now.
“I wish,” Ignis says, and Noct blinks down at him, “you could look at me like this when I am not, in fact, about to die.”
“You’re not dying,” Noct says, a laugh in his voice.
“I love you more than is advisable,” Ignis tells the dream-Noctis, who sighs and covers his eyes with a hand.
“Yeah,” he says, and presses his dry, cracked lips to Ignis’ brow. “Yeah, I know.”