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Ignis noted that many things changed with Noctis each day. One morning, his favorite color would be blue, and then something would catch his eye—a flower in the garden, construction paper, someone’s shirt—and it would switch to yellow by evening. Noctis had a favored shirt until he outgrew it. Flowers were dependent upon the season, and when winter’s chill blew into Insomnia and seeped the life from the lilies, he squealed over the holly berries and pine trees.
Ignis learned the pattern, and did not think much of it when Noctis wiggled closer to him during naptime and mumbled, “Iggy is my favorite.”
When the gardens began to defrost and tulips bloomed in places snow had buried only weeks before, Noctis’ favorite color changed to green. He wore out his beloved carbuncle-print tee shirt beneath his black hooded sweater and pushed his carrots to the side of his plate.
“I don’t like carrots,” the child declared, nose curled. His dislike of vegetables only changed seasonally because of what was present on his plate. Sweet potatoes in autumn were as disgusting to him as spring peas.
Noctis cherished his father, but he never said Regis was his favorite—he showed it in the way his eyes shined when he spent time with Regis and the tears he hid into his pillow when plans with his father were cancelled. He comforted himself with his favorite toys and songs.
But every day, no matter the weather or the flowers or Noctis’ favorite shirt, he always made one statement that never changed.
“Iggy is my favorite.”
Ignis realized this was a pattern. One of consistency, that promised him no transformation. Noctis passed another summer and turned five, and still he said the same.
It wasn’t until he was six when there came a change. A subtle difference, an enhancement upon an unwavering opinion.
“Ignis is my favorite.”
The breeze whispered through the sunflowers, swaying them toward Ignis until one of the petals kissed his arm. He grinned at Noctis, who clutched an armful of his favorite plushies and looked more serious than ever.
“Am I…” Noctis puffed out his shoulders and chest with a deep breath. “Am I your favorite?”
“Noctis is my favorite, too,” said Ignis, knowing the statement to be true.
Noctis relaxed, a blush rising to the skin on his cheeks.
“You will always be my favorite, Noct.”
“Good.” Noctis took his hand and pulled him through the gardens, which would soon turn orange and red like fire as autumn set in. And even when they browned beneath the frost of winter, Ignis would still be Noctis’ favorite. Of that, he was sure.