Archive of Our Own ^beta

In his late teens, Ignis had all too often struggled with falling into over-organised, overstuffed routines, and, resultantly, treated Noctis as a job. To be fair, his appointment to the prince was his job, but it wasn’t and had never been just a job. It was so much more. But when Ignis overextended himself, took on too much, or tried to micromanage everything too acutely, he would (without meaning to) emotionally distance himself for the sake of efficiency. Even more shameful was the fact that Noctis picked up on this habit long before Ignis noticed it himself.

It was never for lack of caring, of course. Ignis realised, years later, that he couldn’t hold himself completely responsible for his inflexible schedule. There’d been a lot of pressure on him; a great many kettles on the boil. The part he was to blame for was his youthful arrogance. He’d seen no issue with his ability to keep an eye on each to prevent them from boiling over.

It was possible, it turned out, to be too efficient. But as fate would have it, a rather convoluted series of events and conversations around the time of Ignis’ induction into the Crownsguard put the issue to rest for good. Before then, Ignis had been too busy being Noctis’ hand, chamberlain, steward, adviser, and protector, that he forgot to be his friend. And, of course, it was Ignis’ friendship which Noctis needed above all.

He knew that now. He hadn’t then.

“Y’know, that whole ordeal was my first taste of action with all four of us,” Prompto reminisced between mouthfuls of stew.

“Action? You waited in the car.” Gladio reminded him.

“Well, what was I supposed to do? I was a civilian! I was sixteen!”

“So was I,” said Noctis. “The sixteen-year-old part, I mean.”

Prompto fixed Noctis with an ironic side-eye. “Yeah, and every sixteen-year-old in the Crown City is trained in combat,” he said. “I wasn’t about to go charging in there with you guys, I could have compromised the whole operation! No—better to watch from a safe distance so I could still feel included without actually having to do anything.”

“And miss school,” Noctis added.

“That, too.”

Ignis sighed, setting his empty bowl aside at the foot of his camp chair.

Gladio smirked. “Bringin’ up bad memories?”

“Mildly embarrassing,” Ignis rejoined. “But, all’s well that ends well.”

“Noct?”

The apartment was dead silent. All the curtains were drawn, the kitchen a mess. No sign of recent movement.

The prince was still huddled under a tangle of blankets on the bed in the corner of his darkened room. One would hardly know that sunrise was well underway thanks to the heavy blackout curtains Noctis claimed he “needed” in order to sleep. In order to sleep during the day, perhaps.

“Noct,” Ignis sighed, standing in the doorway, “you’ll be late for school.”

Noctis groaned.

“Come, now,” Ignis continued, crossing the room to pull back the curtains. “We’ve all of us our duties to perform, and today, your duty is to further your education.”

“Don’t wanna,” Noctis mumbled, pulling a pillow over his face. His voice was barely audible, but Ignis knew him too well.

Well enough to know when something was amiss.

Feeling his brows knit together almost against his will, Ignis tweaked the curtains to slightly abate the intense morning light.

“Are you unwell?” he ventured.

“No,” was Noctis’ muffled reply.

“A test you forgot to study for, perhaps? A homework assignment you forgot to do?”

“Nuh-uh.”

Ignis felt his frown deepen. “You’re not being… bothered at school, are you?”

“No!”

That, at least, was a relief. “A disagreement with Prompto?”

“No…”

Again, Ignis sighed, putting his hands on his hips in a gesture of both defeat and impatience. “Then what, Noct?”

Noctis lowered the pillow to peer at Ignis—or, at least, Ignis’ silhouette, since he was standing in front of the window.

“I just want to sleep some more,” Noctis said. “I’m tired.”

As am I, thought Ignis wearily, but he’d never say so out loud. He wasn’t sure what to say, however, so a long silence ensued in which adviser and prince simply stared at each other.

Noctis did look tired, if the darker-than-usual rings under his eyes were anything to go by. It was Wednesday, which meant Noctis had had training with Gladio last night. Gladio never went easy. It was a blessing and a curse.

Plus, Ignis knew that Noctis was still uncomfortable with the reality of his position. With his father’s limp becoming noticeably worse in the past couple of weeks, he was… understandably put-out. No one could blame him, but it certainly seemed to make Ignis’ job harder—being that part of Ignis’ job was to keep Noctis on track for his eventual ascension, and keep him in good mental and physical health. The two tasks often seemed to contradict each other.

“Very well,” Ignis, eventually, conceded. “I’ll call the school and let them know you won’t be attending your morning classes. I’ll be back around ten to take you in for your last class before lunch. How about that?”

Even as he spoke, he was mentally rearranging his schedule. He had studies of his own to attend to this morning, and then he needed to drop off Noctis’ formalwear at the tailor for alterations before lunch. He needed to be at the citadel by one p.m. to attend the penultimate diplomatic meeting with the visiting embassy from Accordo. Easy enough to drop Noctis off before visiting the tailor, and take a more swift lunch on the drive to the citadel.

After that, he’d had the evening off, but he supposed with the change in events, he ought to drop in on Noctis to make sure he really wasn’t ill. It wouldn’t go too far amiss to cook him a healthy dinner, either, at least as a precaution (he could stop by the supermarket once he was done at the citadel). Not to mention, the apartment was in a state, and it was highly unlikely that Noctis would be doing anything about it anytime soon.

“Thanks, Specs,” Noctis slurred, turning over and burrowing his face in his pillows.

“Anything else?” Ignis asked, a razor’s edge of irritation creeping into his voice. Farewell, free evening. He was never going to finish the novel he was reading.

“Curtains,” Noctis grunted.

Ignis bit back another sigh and yanked the curtains shut.

When Ignis returned at ten on the dot, Noctis was out of bed and taking a late breakfast of peanut butter on toast. That, at least, was a relief.

“Feeling better?” Ignis asked, watching Noctis pick around the crusts. His eating habits were nigh irreparable.

Noctis shrugged and grunted noncommittally. He was still, it appeared, half asleep.

Neither of them said much more as Noctis finished selectively nibbling his toast, grabbed his school bag, and followed Ignis to the elevator. When they got into the car, Ignis noticed Noctis glance towards the garment bag on the back seat.

“Your formalwear,” Ignis explained. “You’ve a dinner to attend tomorrow night, if you’ll recall—with your father, the council, and the diplomats from Accordo. The blazer still needs taking in at the waist, so I’m dropping it off at the tailor today.”

“Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?” Noctis’ tone was teasing, which was, if nothing else, an indication that he was finally properly awake.

“No one ever seems to mind rush orders for royalty, funnily enough,” said Ignis. He knew he was avoiding the question—yes, in fact, he was cutting it a bit fine, because he had, in fact, been busier than usual these past weeks. His final exam for induction into the Crownsguard was on the horizon (one more week), and the preparations for that, alongside his newly commenced university studies and regular duties, meant his schedule was more crowded than ever. He’d pencilled in his free evening weeks ago, knowing he could only handle so much at once. He had half expected something to come up. Free time was antithesis to his very existence, apparently.

Nothing further was said until they were more than halfway there.

“You haven’t made me any of those sweets in a while,” Noctis commented.

Ignis spared him a glance. Noctis was staring out of the window as if he’d never said anything.

“I’ve not really had the time,” Ignis replied.

“Right,” Noct said quietly. Then, “When’s your Crownsguard exam, again?”

“Next Thursday.”

A short silence. When Noctis spoke again, his voice was so muted, Ignis had to wonder if he’d merely imagined it.

“You’ll do fine.”

And since Ignis was unsure whether or not anything had actually been said, he had no reply.

To Ignis’ chagrin, Noctis was not alone in his apartment when Ignis dropped in with groceries and cleaning supplies that evening. Prompto was there, and the two boys were sprawled across the couch poring over some comic book or other.

At least Prompto, for his part, immediately scrambled up to lend Ignis a hand putting away the groceries. Noctis looked up in acknowledgement, but said nothing and gave no indication that he was planning to move from his spot.

Ignis had nothing against Prompto, of course. The boy was helpful, friendly, energetic. The kind of person Noctis needed around. His civilian status could only ever give the prince some further modicum of humility and empathy beyond what he would ever have been able to gain from the impenetrable upper floors of the Citadel.

Sometimes Ignis enjoyed his company, but something about Argentum rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps it was his excessively chipper manner, or tendency to fill any silence with inane chatter—a habit likely borne out of social insecurity, but no less irritating for it. Noctis clearly didn’t mind it, enjoyed it even, but to Ignis, silence was golden. Especially when he had a blossoming headache in his left temple. Likely from trying to take notes at that day’s diplomatic meeting, which had entirely lacked momentum.

Thinking of which, he needed to find the time to go over those notes with Noctis before the formal dinner tomorrow night. He wasn’t sure how he was going to fit that in, short of shoving them up Noctis’ nose over breakfast tomorrow morning, before rushing off to receive the notice of time and place for his practical and written exams next Thursday, prior to his official physical check-up and training session. Then it would be back home to shower, work in some study, change into his own formal wear, then swing by the tailor en route to Noctis’ apartment to get him ready for the evening. Ignis supposed he could give him a basic rundown then, but it would be, once again, “cutting it a bit fine.” Needs must, he supposed.

Ignis must have been getting used to Prompto’s constant rambling. He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts as they put the groceries away and cleaned up the kitchen that he didn’t even really notice Prompto nattering the entire time. Not that it surprised him.

“Good luck getting Noct to eat these,” Prompto commented as he dropped a bag of carrots into the refrigerator’s disappointingly empty vegetable drawer.

“I have my ways,” said Ignis. “Steam them in honey, and they barely taste like carrots any more.” He glanced over at Noctis, still on the couch, now scrolling through his phone.

“Ooh, I have to try that some time!”

“Why not just stay for dinner?” Noctis piped up.

Prompto’s face hardly had time to light up before it fell. “Argh, no. I can’t tonight. My parents are going back to work on Friday, so I should really… yeah. Some other time?”

“Sure.”

“Woohoo!” Just like that, Prompto was exuberant once more, launching into the task of drying the dishes Ignis was currently washing, elbow-deep in the sink.

They both looked up when Noctis stood.

“What?” he said, distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m going to the bathroom. That okay with you two?”

Ignis hummed. “I almost thought you were going to offer a hand.”

Noctis shrugged. “Prompto’s got it under control,” he said dismissively as he left the room.

“Is that all I am to you?” Prompto called after him, to the tune of a muffled, “Pretty much.”

A thought occurred to Ignis. Perhaps Prompto’s presence could prove useful beyond an extra (albeit clumsy) hand in the kitchen.

“Prompto,” he began quietly, so as not to be overheard, “has Noct seemed… off, to you, at all, as of late?”

For once, it seemed, Prompto had nothing to say. He bit his lip and slowly met Ignis’ eye. “A little,” he finally admitted.

“Has he… said anything to you?”

Prompto abruptly broke eye contact, a deep frown ruffling his freckled face. “I think if you want to know what’s bothering Noct, you should ask him,” he said. “Sorry,” he added hastily.

Ignis sighed, wishing his hands weren’t covered in dish soap so he could adjust his glasses. “Were that it were that simple.”

Prompto looked up again. “Well, maybe—”

With impeccably bad timing, Noctis re-entered the room, cutting off whatever Prompto was about to suggest. To his surprise, and against his better judgement, Ignis found himself disappointed.

Shortly after, Prompto left. They didn’t get another chance to speak privately.

“So, Accordo basically wants Lucis’ support in pushing for independence from the Empire,” Noctis summarised.

“In short,” said Ignis, in the process of adjusting Noctis’ tie. “An alliance, however, would be a clear provocation. Considering Lucis has been on the defensive for decades, offering our support would be incredibly unwise.”

“That wouldn’t end well for Accordo either, though, right?”

“Likely not,” Ignis agreed, stepping back and folding his arms, casting an eye over Noctis to ensure he looked properly presentable for the Royal Court. The Crown Prince of Lucis cleaned up rather nicely, Ignis thought. He was suddenly struck by how, in recent months, Noctis had started to look less like a boy and more like a young man. Perhaps part of it was down to the warp training he’d started since turning sixteen.

“Then why bother?” Noctis pressed.

Ignis cleared his throat. “Well, Accordo may retain their own government, but by and large, they are under the Empire’s thumb. As such, no decision is made or action taken without the approval of the Altissian Imperial Delegation. While in theory it seems plausible that they should want for independence, in reality the Empire would almost certainly veto a visit such as this.”

Noctis’ eyes narrowed. “Then… the Empire are trying to bait us. So they have an excuse to attack?”

“It would seem so,” said Ignis, nodding. “Not that they’ve ever needed one in the past. Personally, I suspect they’ve finally caught on to the growing power of the press and the importance of appearances. Nonetheless. Since this is, in all likelihood, a trap, it would be wise for you—”

“To watch my back?” Noct said bitterly.

“If you please. I will be near, and I believe Gladio is on duty. And, of course, your father will be there, but it is still imperative for you to display the poise, intellectual independence, and royal competence expected from you.”

Noctis closed his eyes, sighing heavily. It was exactly the sort of event he hated. It couldn’t be helped.

Ignis studied his charge for a moment, then briefly pressed a hand to his shoulder.

“You’ll do fine,” he said gently.

Noctis looked up, but Ignis was busy checking his watch.

“We’d best leave, unless we wish to be late—which we do not,” he said. “If only we could do something about your hair…”

“Hey!” Noctis’ expression immediately shifted to one of indignance. “There’s nothing wrong with my hair!”

The dinner went by with nary a trouble, to the relief of all. Noctis was seated right by King Regis at the head table, which sported all the most important members of the council and delegation. While he seemed pleased at the chance to spend time with his father, he was, undoubtedly, considerably less pleased when he was inevitably dragged into semi-formal discussion with the Accordan politicians. He didn’t show it, though. Not much.

From where Ignis was seated, at the table politely set aside for attendants, advisors, and chamberlains (of which, Ignis was technically all three), he was able to keep a good, if surreptitious, eye on Noctis. Not that he really needed to, he supposed. It filled him with a warm sense of satisfaction to see Noctis holding his own in the discussion, despite knowing that the prince hated finery, foppery, and fakery above all else, and was hardly a fan of such extensive interaction with strangers—let alone political discussion with diplomats, even when those diplomats weren’t like to be hiding ulterior motives.

The look of pride on Regis’ face whenever he looked at his son was a fine sight to behold. It assuaged Ignis’ own hidden reservations that perhaps he hadn’t been doing so well at his own duty… He needn’t have worried so much.

For his part, he’d engaged in politely phatic conversation with those seated at his own table as the meal progressed through its multiple sumptuous courses. His tablemates, like him, were more interested in paying attention to their Lords and Ladies at the head table.

Midway through dessert, the Accordan across from Ignis spoke up.

“You’re a retainer to the Crown Prince, aren’t you? Hand of the Future King?”

Ignis looked up. The Accordan appeared to only be a few years older than himself, with elfishly pointed features and plastic-perfect mousey brown hair. He was outfitted in Accordo’s traditional shade of navy blue, and judging from the quality of the red feature-stitching on his three-piece, either served or was from an influential family. Or both. He seemed fairly innocuous, but the Accordan’s red-rimmed eyes implied that he was either someone who worried too much, or had too much to worry about. Or both.

“Indeed I am,” Ignis confirmed, not incautiously. “Ignis Scientia. And you are?”

The Accordan pursed his lips. “Gian Lupo. Personal assistant and second cousin to Ambassador Abbatelli.”

Well, now. Ignis knew Gian Lupo’s type all too well: an offshoot of a reputable (but not too reputable) household, destined to serve his own relatives and accept his own relative unimportance while assuming an air of undeserved pomposity. They were all too tiring to deal with, but the meal was nearly over and then Ignis might have a chance to catch up with Noctis, before they were all ushered into the parlour for after-dinner refreshments and sociable ‘milling’. Noctis’ least favourite part of the event.

Personal assistant to the ambassador, though. Interesting.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Ignis.

“Yours as well,” replied Lupo, flashing a brief smile.

“You and your master have been enjoying your stay in Insomnia, I hope?” Ignis continued.

Lupo seemed caught off-guard. “Oh, um… Yes. It’s a change of pace from Altissia, for sure, but not an entirely unpleasant one.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.” Ignis smiled. “I understand that the Crown City can be overwhelming to those not used to it.”

“Not at all,” said Lupo. Polite, but short. He cleared his throat, and returned to the topic which he’d clearly initially wanted to discuss. “It must be a tough job, attending to the prince,” he said. “From all accounts, I hear he’s quite the handful.”

Ignis wondered just which accounts those were. The press? Bitter attendants of the Royal Household? “Quite the handful,” while not always inaccurate, was too vague a description to really tell whether or not Lupo’s sources were reputable.

“Well, I’m sure any Lord, Lady, or royal could be described as such by someone who simply doesn’t know how to handle them,” Ignis replied accordingly. “Especially at his Highness’ current age, I’m afraid,” he added, with smirk to show that he was making light.

Lupo looked disappointed. “Can I take that to assume that you do know how to handle him?”

Barely. “Of course,” Ignis replied evenly. “It’s my job, after all.”

“Fair enough,” said Lupo. “But… he goes to a public high school, doesn’t he? A prince could pick up some bad habits in such a place.”

Here we go, thought Ignis, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “His Highness wished for the chance to connect with those his own age among his future subjects, and his Majesty wished for his son to experience a measure of normalcy in his life, prior to his inevitable inheritance of the Crown of Lucis.”

“It would have to be a school in one of the more affluent areas of the city, though, wouldn’t it?” Lupo steamrollered on, practically ignoring Ignis’ words. “Surely he’s used to a certain level of luxury.”

Ignis narrowed his eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.”

Lupo held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Of course, of course. My apologies. I was curious, is all. Accordo doesn’t have a monarchy, so I find the concept of royalty and royal protocol rather fascinating.”

Ignis nodded, but said nothing further. Gian Lupo made no attempt to continue the conversation.

Shortly after, sure enough, the meal was wrapped up and a servant announced tea, coffee, and light confections in the parlour.

Unfortunately, Ignis didn’t get the chance to check up on Noctis. The prince was swept into the parlour on a wave of VIPs, including Ambassador Abbatelli and, of course, King Regis himself. The King’s limp, Ignis couldn’t help but notice with some concern, really had become pronounced. It didn’t bode well for Noctis’ mood over the coming days.

Ignis, meanwhile, found himself entering the parlour as one of the final stragglers, discovering Gladio on sentry duty just inside the door.

“Seems to be going well,” Gladio commented, nodding over to where Noctis politely pretended to laugh at something the ambassador was telling him.

“So far, so good,” Ignis agreed idly, eyes straying over to Gian Lupo, who was conversing animatedly with a couple of other Accordan attendants over by the macaron pyramids.

“What is it?” Gladio asked, picking up on Ignis’ unease.

“The ambassador’s assistant seemed awfully interested in Noct’s personal life,” he explained. “That one over there, with the brown hair.”

“The one who looks like a malnourished version of you?” teased Gladio, rightfully earning a glare from Ignis. “I see him. Being in the presence of royalty doesn’t seem to faze him, to be honest.”

“Which further raises my suspicions.”

Gladio shrugged. “Ever think you think too much? Probably nothing to worry about. Even if it is… Well, Noct has the second-best security detail in Lucis.” Second to the King, he of course meant.

“I hope you’re right,” Ignis sighed.

“And I hope you’re referring to the first part of what I said, because that second part is on you, too, pal.”

Noctis did a remarkable job of holding himself upright, right up until he got into Ignis’ car. Then he let out a long groan of three parts exhaustion, one part exasperation, and rested his forehead on the dashboard with a dull thunk.

“You did very well tonight, Noct,” said Ignis, closing his own door and putting on his seatbelt. “I’m sure your father is very pleased with you.”

“Is that all my hard work is worth?” Noctis muttered to his knees. “My old man’s approval?”

He sounded bitter, but the king’s pride and approval meant more to Noctis than he would ever admit aloud. Ignis knew this.

“I’d say the opinions of our foreign guests are likely in your favour, too,” Ignis added. At least he hoped that was the case. Perhaps he was biased. “Seatbelt, Noct?”

Noctis did as he was told as he replied. “Not that it really matters. We’re just sending them away with nothing except a few souvenirs, if they remember to swing by the gift shop on their way out.”

Ignis raised his eyebrows, now focused on the road. “Strong opinions on the matter?”

“It’s a waste of time.”

“You don’t think the Empire is behind this visit?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? Probably. Like you said, Accordo doesn’t do anything without the Empire’s approval. But they have to think we’re stupid if they don’t expect us to know that.”

It wasn’t saying much, but this was possibly the most Ignis had ever heard Noctis give an opinion about a political issue. Not that he was displeased. “It certainly seems a rather transparent scheme,” he agreed. “In all likelihood, they’ve manufactured themselves some sort of win-win scenario. I’d be surprised if they didn’t have something else up their sleeve in the practically guaranteed event of our refusal to lend support.” He took a hand off the steering wheel to adjust his glasses. “Even if it’s only to give the press another opportunity to badmouth the monarchy, and chip away at public support Lucis-wide.”

Noctis groaned. “I didn’t even think about that.”

“The variables are infinite,” said Ignis. “And at times, it seems there are no constants to be had.”

Noct snorted, and fell into a tired silence for several minutes.

“You seemed to be getting along with Ambassador Abbatelli,” Ignis commented, slowing to a stop at a traffic light.

“That old dude? Weird guy. Wasn’t even interested in talking politics. Not with me.”

Ignis had only half been expecting Noctis to reply, given how exhausted he looked and his tendency to fall asleep in the car even in broad daylight. Clearly, something was keeping him up.

“What was he interested in talking about?”

“Me,” Noctis said, tone split between irritation and disgust. “School, studies, training and stuff.”

A flare of suspicion burned bright in Ignis’ mind. This, combined with the prying “curiosity” of the ambassador’s assistant…

“I didn’t tell him anything specific,” Noctis continued, possibly detecting the new tension in Ignis’ demeanour.

“Wise not to,” said Ignis. “Ambassador Abbatelli’s assistant was all too interested in your personal life, as well. I fear there may be something at play.”

For a long moment, Noctis didn’t reply. Ignis glanced over to see if he had fallen asleep, but the prince was staring out of the passenger side window, expression blank as fresh paper.

“Maybe,” he said finally.

They pulled into the parking garage under Noctis’ apartment complex.

“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” Noctis whined.

Ignis cut the engine. “Yes,” he replied. “It’s only one more day before the weekend.”

“Why not just call it a long weekend and be done with it?” Noctis suggested. “I’m tired.”

Ignis said nothing. Neither of them made any move to get out of the car.

Noctis looked bone-weary and moody, and Ignis still couldn’t shake the feeling that this went beyond just being tired, hating politics, and wanting a day off.

He remembered what Prompto had said. More so, Ignis wondered what he’d been about to say. Then he realised how utterly ridiculous it was for him to be wishing for advice from the human equivalent of a chocobo.

“Noct,” Ignis began cautiously, “you haven’t quite seemed yourself, this week. I feel it’s my responsibility to ask: is everything alright?

Folding his arms, Noctis glared at his knees and said nothing. Ignis waited.

“I just…” Noctis began, trailing off before he had ever really said anything. Ignis watched the frustration and anguish blossom across his face from profile, feeling a heavy, dread-like worry sink into his chest. It was silent for several more moments, until Noctis let out a world-weary sigh, shaking his head with eyes clenched shut. “Will you make me breakfast tomorrow?” he asked instead, voice thin and uncertain.

Ignis had a meeting with his thesis supervisor early tomorrow morning, on the Insomnia University campus across the city from Noctis’ apartment. It was probably too late to postpone it.

He almost said no. That, regrettably, he had important duties to attend to—and he did. But… Noct was an important duty, too. The first and foremost important duty that Ignis had ever and would ever have; the centre of gravity around which all of Ignis’ other duties and responsibilities revolved.

He couldn’t say no. Not now.

“Of course,” said Ignis, earning a tiny, brief smile in reply.

“Why don’t you wear your hair up anymore?”

Ignis glanced up from the email on his phone. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” Noctis said around a mouthful of bacon. “When we were kids, you always used to gel your hair up out of the way. Said you hated having it across your face. What changed?”

“I started training in the Crownsguard,” Ignis explained. “And didn’t care to look like an abused toothbrush after training sessions.

Noctis snorted. “Sounds like you just needed some better hair gel. But, whatever. It’s your hair.”

Ignis huffed. “You certainly seem high-spirited this morning, Noct.”

“Most important meal,” Noctis said, waving a rasher of bacon on the end of his fork. He shrugged. “Looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow.”

“About that,” Ignis began, fighting back a grimace. “The Accordan delegate is leaving tomorrow morning, and you need to be present for the send-off. Not much time for sleeping in, I’m afraid.”

Noctis deflated. “And now my whole day is ruined.”

“You’ll live.”

Ignis himself had barely slept last night. After seeing Noctis safely to his apartment, he’d called Gladio to relay what Noctis had said about the ambassador being all too interested in the prince’s personal life. Gladio agreed that, all things considered, it was good cause for extra precaution, and passed on the message to Marshal Cor. Early this morning, Ignis had received word that Noctis’ security would be increased until such a time as the potential threat was deemed passed. Ordinarily, Noctis was allowed to walk to and from school and generally go where he pleased, but today, to assure his safety, Ignis would be dropping him off and picking him up.

It was nothing more than caution. It wasn’t the first time this sort of security increase had been necessitated, and on lesser evidences, at that.

Meanwhile, Ignis had been lucky enough to reschedule the meeting with his supervisor. He’d be heading straight to the university after dropping off Noctis. Between this, that, and having to pick Noctis up again later, he was forced to forgo training today. Attending the final meeting between the Lucians and Accordans was imperative. He didn’t like the idea of missing a training session less than a week out from his Crownsguard entrance exam, but needs must, he supposed.

Ignis thought he’d been holding together quite well under the stress of the week, but clearly he was more distracted than he’d thought. So distracted that he didn’t notice he was being followed. Not until he was driving around the full-up parking lot furthest from the main campus, a nondescript grey sedan mimicking his every turn.

The parking conundrum was why Ignis preferred to come in as early as possible. After nine in the morning, there were no free parking spaces to speak of. Not to mention, the sky had opened up shortly after he’d dropped Noctis at the school gates under the watchful eye of the two Crownsguard assigned there for the day. There wasn’t a soul in sight, just rows upon rows of cars, slick from the rain.

It had taken him all too long to notice, in his rear view mirror, that the car behind him was following him—from a cautious enough distance that he couldn’t see the faces of the two men in the front seat.

It did not bode well.

He reached the end of the row he was driving down and turned into the next, slowing to a stop in front of a station wagon in the same shade of unassuming grey, positioned across the aisle. He was blocked in.

From the passenger seat of the station wagon emerged an unpleasantly familiar face, shaded from the rain by an umbrella clearly Altissian in design.

Gian Lupo. Personal assistant to Ambassador Abbatelli.

As if Ignis really needed any further disruptions to his day.

With one hand he slowly and deliberately put the car out of gear, as his foot engaged the park break. With the other he hastily (if surreptitiously) grabbed his phone from the cup holder and fired off a quick text. The whole time, he kept his eyes trained straight ahead, staring at Gian Lupo through the windscreen.

The ambassador’s assistant did not look like he wanted to be here. That was interesting. Perhaps Ignis could use that to his advantage.

He just barely had the time to drop his phone under the seat (and turn off the ignition) before the car door was wrenched open and the two men from the sedan manhandled him out into the rain. His glasses flew off his face as if in a bid to escape, finding themselves trodden underfoot of one of the men, who was tying Ignis’ hands rather painfully in front of him. The other man patted him down to make sure he didn’t have any weapons or means of communication—it was uncomfortably intrusive, made all the more so by the sudden blurriness of everything within six feet of him, including the two men’s faces.

“Careful,” Lupo barked. “Let’s keep this clean. He’s not resisting, go easy.”

Even as he said it, the backseat doors of the station wagon opened, and two… rather large men in Accordan blue stepped out.

“I’m afraid my poor spectacles never stood a chance,” said Ignis, as the man who tied his hands (himself a good bit larger than Ignis) bent to retrieve the warped frames from the sodden asphalt.

“And I apologise for that,” said Lupo.

The two men from the sedan returned to their car, and Ignis was crowded into the backseat of the station wagon between the two men who might actually have been body builders. There certainly wasn’t any space to move around, which was probably the point.

Ignis focused on his breathing and tried not to let it get to him. This was a good opportunity to learn the Accordans’ true motives. Or so he hoped.

Gian Lupo returned to the station wagon’s passenger seat. The driver was an Accordan whom Ignis recognised from last night’s dinner—another of the ambassador’s attendants, perhaps.

As they sped away from the university, the roads emptier than usual thanks to the unrelenting rain, Ignis analysed the situation. They had tied his hands and made sure he didn’t have a phone or weapon, but they hadn’t blindfolded him or knocked him out, which either meant they were careless, or they didn’t care if he knew where they were going and how to get there.

They hadn’t hurt him, so far, beyond being a bit rough and breaking his glasses, but Ignis put that mostly down to his own cooperation. It was certainly on the cards that they would resort to physical violence if they thought it necessary—the sheer size and musculature of the two men either side of him was proof enough of that. The question was, why?

“I do hope this doesn’t put me too far off schedule,” Ignis said pleasantly, sounding a good deal more light-hearted than he felt. He needed to test the waters. “I’m sure my supervisor will understand, but I have a very important meeting at ten which I really must attend.”

Gian Lupo shot him a glance. “You might just have to be late,” he said. “It will depend.”

Poor, simple Gian Lupo had no idea how much he had said with those last three words.

“I hope you’re not planning to hold me for ransom,” Ignis ventured. “As much as I believe in his Majesty’s love for all his subjects, the son of a line of stewards isn’t worth much.”

“You’re not just a steward, though,” said Lupo, as if he knew Ignis’ great secret. Not like it was much of a secret. Ignis had indeed transcended the usual role ascribed to those of his line.

“Nonetheless,” Ignis pressed on. “I am quite expendable and replaceable.”

Lupo scoffed. “To his Majesty, perhaps,” he said. “For your sake, I hope your Prince Noctis feels differently.”

Oh. Now Ignis was starting to get a clearer idea of what was going on. He, too, hoped that Noctis didn’t see him as expendable and replaceable… but at the same time, Ignis hoped he did. It might save him a lot of trouble, depending on what the Accordans were planning.

At least they weren’t planning to torture Ignis for information to sell to the Empire. It didn’t seem that way, at least—he certainly wasn’t going to mention it, lest things didn’t go their way and they decided on an impromptu plan B.

“There’s something I can’t figure out,” Ignis said instead. “Is your delegation here at the behest of the Empire or not?”

“As if we can do anything without their approval,” Lupo snorted. “Look, the Niffs are sneaky bastards, but they’re not very subtle.”

“Gian,” said the driver in a warning tone.

“What does it matter, Marco?” Lupo snapped, turning in his seat to look directly at Ignis. “Look, I’m sure you’ve all figured out that the whole ‘requesting moral support’ thing is a load of bullshit, but our desire for independence is not.” Even without his glasses, Ignis could see the furious incline of Lupo’s brows, even if his voice was mostly calm. “The only way to get what we want is to give the Empire something they want. They want info on the inner workings of Lucis. That’s why we’re here. But there’s something we know they want even more.”

It seemed that Gian Lupo was a surprisingly resourceful ally, while still being the enemy. Clearly he wasn’t happy about this. Not with this scheme, not with the Empire’s place in Accordo. He was angry. And angry people loved to rant.

“A very elaborate pretence, to be sure,” Ignis admitted, even while dread seeped into his bones. They had clearly done their research. That Ignis was here was proof of that. “What does Niflheim want with Noctis, anyway?” He had ideas, of course, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

Lupo met eyes with one of the bear-men in the back seat, and nodded. The man promptly seized the back of Ignis’ head and shoved him forward. Pain and heat blossomed across the bridge of his nose where his face violently met his knee.

Slowly, he lifted his head. Lupo had turned back around and was pointedly facing forwards. The car was silent but for the motor, the ever-present spatter of rain, and the rhythmic thumping of the windscreen wipers.

The message was clear: no more questions. Seemed it did hurt to ask, sometimes.

At least the situation was a little clearer. While the King, the council, and the delegation were busy in the final meeting, the ambassador’s lackeys were carrying out his dirty work. Trying to get to Noctis directly would be foolish, so instead they intended to use the prince’s good heart against him. Ignis was the bargaining chip.

In turn, the Ambassador intended to use Noctis as a bargaining chip to get what Accordo wanted from the Empire. What the Empire would do with him was anyone’s guess—something sinister, no doubt. Perhaps they would use him as a bargaining chip yet again to get what they wanted from King Regis.

Ignis couldn’t help but think that it all seemed like a very elaborate and volatile game of Monopoly.

As the car approached the industrial outer-reaches in the south-west of Insomnia, Ignis found himself with nothing left to focus on but the surging apprehension rolling through his abdomen. Worry, too. For himself—but mostly for Noct.

While he now knew the Accordan’s desired outcome, he knew nothing of their plan’s details. He just hoped that his own hasty actions would be enough to thwart them and keep Noctis from doing anything stupid.

He had texted Gladio the name of the rental company from the bumper stickers on the sedan and station wagon. Along with their registration numbers.

They may not have been the greatest tacticians, but the Accordans had done an impressive amount of research on the prince. That is to say, Ignis wasn’t the only one the ambassador’s men had chased down that morning—not that he knew of this until after all was said and done.

If Noctis thought it was odd that Prompto wasn’t in homeroom that day, he surely thought it even stranger when a hand shot out and pulled him into the bathroom in the interim between his first and second classes.

Prompto’s eyes were wide, hair mussed, breaths coming fast. Before Noctis could ask what was wrong, Prompto was pressing something wrapped in a silk handkerchief into his hands.

Staring for a confused moment into Prompto’s panicked face, Noctis unravelled the handkerchief. Inside was a pair of instantly recognisable specs—Ignis’, slightly bent at the bridge and with a large crack across one of the lens.

It was a long moment of blank incomprehension before he noticed the writing on the inside of the handkerchief. It was an address Noctis didn’t recognise, in a suburb he wasn’t familiar with, followed by:

Come alone.
Or he’s done for.

Later, when Ignis learned of all this, he found it to be needlessly melodramatic. It had the desired effect, however.

Almost.

It was no secret: Noctis had a reckless streak several miles wide, but in this situation, the prince found himself not knowing what to do. He wasn’t so impulsive that he didn’t realise that to thoughtlessly comply would be a very bad idea.

Normally, when Noctis didn’t know what to do, he would ask Ignis. That wasn’t an option. So he did the second best thing.

Rooted to the spot in the school bathroom, with an increasingly agitated Prompto wringing his hands in front of him, he took out his phone and speed-dialled Gladio.

Ignis, meanwhile, had been taken to an abandoned warehouse about a mile out from the old wall. He almost sighed when he saw it—the clichés were piling up by the second. The inside was cold, dark, and dusty, filled with old, rotting crates. The roof was clearly leaking in several places, and the smell of perpetual dampness filled Ignis’ nostrils, even as fresh rainwater dripped into murky puddles on the uneven floor.

They instructed him to sit on the floor in an alcove of piled crates, and tied his hands to a support pole—thankfully in one of the drier areas of the warehouse. Then, Ignis’ personal little envoy took up their positions. The driver—Marco, if Ignis recalled—stood watch outside the door. The two large men both stood with their backs to Ignis, keeping an eye on the many shadows and potential hiding places the warehouse had to offer. Gian Lupo pulled in a chair from the office, and sat facing Ignis, looking thoroughly unhappy.

Then the waiting began.

After about a half-hour, by Ignis’ reckoning, one of the guardsmen broke the long silence, muttering, “How long is this going to take?”

“As long as it takes,” Lupo snapped.

The large man said nothing further.

“If I might hazard to ask,” Ignis began, “what if your suspicions about his Highness are wrong?”

“If he pulls a no-show, you mean?” said Lupo, following up with a shrug. “Bad news for you, I guess. You’re not worth as much, but you probably know enough to be of at least some use to the Niffs…” His last word dragged.

Ignis’ heart sank and he couldn’t help but wonder, for a brief, insane, second, if Gian Lupo was a mind reader. But unless it was his imagination, the Accordan looked disgusted at his own words; perhaps a shade paler than he had been a moment ago.

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Lupo, the addendum little more than a whisper.

The warehouse fell silent again, but for the rain on the roof and intermittent splattering from the ceiling’s several leaks.

It was roughly another half-hour before anything else happened.

A strangled cry, which ended as quickly as it had begun, sounded from the direction of the entrance.

“Marco!” gasped one of the guardsmen.

Gian Lupo had leapt to his feet, face alight with panic. “Go!” he said. “Both of you!”

The two henchmen hurried off towards the front of the warehouse.

Lupo turned to Ignis. “I’d never wanted anything to do with this!” he babbled. “But I thought… I thought if I…” He gulped, shaking his head, hurrying forward and fumbling with the knots around Ignis’ wrists.

Ignis studied him, breathing deeply to keep his own rising wave of adrenaline under control.

“The Crown does not take plots like this lightly,” he said evenly. “But, if you give yourself up and agree to testify against the ambassador, then… Well, I can’t say I know what will happen to you. But you’ll be better off than your master and any co-conspirators you can name. I guarantee that.”

The ropes fell away from Ignis’ wrists. Lupo met his eyes, took a shaky breath, and nodded.

In a flash of blue, Gian Lupo was flung away from Ignis, landing on his back on the damp floor, pinned down by a rain-soaked, heavy-breathing Crown Prince of Lucis.

“Noct!” Ignis exclaimed, scrambling to his feet, startled by the sudden appearance. “Leave him be. He’s agreed to blow the whistle.”

Noctis stood, a little shaky from the warp—he’d done well, better than Ignis had seen so far, but clearly it was taxing for him. Lupo, meanwhile, lay winded, gasping like a displaced fish.

“Are you alright?” Ignis asked, heart thudding as he reached towards his charge, ready to steady him if needed. Noctis looked at him sharply, a peculiar sort of surprise written across his features.

“Am I alright?” he repeated. “What about you?”

“No worse for wear,” Ignis assured him. “Bit of a headache, is all.”

Noctis let out a strangled laugh, and within a second Ignis found himself with an armful of damp Lucian prince—not that he fared much better, himself. They were both wet, shivering, and uncomfortable, but with Noctis’ arms wrapped around his chest, his own arms looped over Noct’s bony shoulders, Ignis inexplicably felt warmer than he had in weeks.

“I was worried,” Noctis mumbled into Ignis’ collarbone.

“So was I,” said Ignis. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Noctis scoffed and tightened his hold.

Prompted by Ignis’ text and Noctis’ call, Gladio had done exactly what Ignis had hoped he would: called the rental company. It was standard anti-theft practice to install rental cars with GPS chips, and with Gladio’s Crownsguard status, the company had little choice but to grant him full access to the tracking information.

Following that, it had been a simple matter of coordination. Gladio had taken his Jeep and picked up Noctis, an insistent Prompto, and the two on-duty Crownsguard from the school, and set off in pursuit of the station wagon’s GPS location. The sedan, meanwhile, had gone straight to the address specified on the handkerchief. It hadn’t been difficult to figure out which car to follow. Meanwhile, a B-team had been mobilised to take care of things at the would-be handoff point.

The handkerchief itself—and Ignis’ regrettably irreparable spectacles—had been given to Prompto by two Accordans who had ambushed him as he left his home. They’d kept him there until two more Accordans arrived, foisted Ignis’ glasses and the handkerchief upon him, and told him to deliver them to the prince. Then they’d driven off, four of them in a grey sedan.

All considered, it had been rather straightforward. Arrests were made, the King informed, the meeting cut short, and Ambassador Abbatelli detained. Ignis was ordered to take the rest of the day off, to his simultaneous chagrin and relief. Noctis insisted that they all—himself, Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto—go back to his apartment and unwind with some video games.

Ignis didn’t have the heart to say no, but his impaired sight meant that he was letting the team down in just about every match because he had no idea what was going on.

(It took him all of a day to get new glasses. Rather than getting a replica of his long-lived thick frames, however, he went for a sleeker, more stylish design. And this time, he made sure to get a spare. Or two.)

Noctis flat-out refused to go to the Accordans’ farewell ceremony the next afternoon, postponed from its original morning timeslot. It was slightly odd that it was still going ahead, with several members of the delegation—including its leader, the ambassador—in disgrace, and therefore absent. Thanks to Gian Lupo, the conspirators had been identified rather quickly. It posed a political conundrum, however. The Crown had every right to hold them in custody, since they had broken the terms of their diplomatic immunity and the laws of the land. To do so, however, could cause long-lasting tension with Accordo, which in turn could be seen by the Empire as grounds to take action against Lucis.

It was beyond frustrating that the Niffs’ plot had been thwarted, yet they incurred no losses and still had the invisible upper hand.

A last minute long-distance correspondence with the First Secretary of the Accordo Protectorate had solved the issue, if not in an entirely satisfying manner. Justice would be delivered upon Abbatelli and his associates in the courts of Altissia, and they were rightfully banned from ever returning to Lucian soil.

Out of a scholarly interest of his own, Ignis decided to attend the ceremony, watching from an inconspicuous distance through his new spectacles. The innocent diplomats, of lower status on average, had genuinely believed that Accordo was seeking Lucis’ support. They bowed and apologised profusely to King Regis, who nodded his head and accepted their remorse with all the imperiousness of royalty, even as he leaned heavily on his cane.

Afterwards, Ignis decided to head to the training room to catch up on lost practice. Halfway there, he paused at the sound of hurried footsteps on the marble behind him.

“Ignis, my boy! There you are.” It was his uncle, his attendants’ uniform slightly rumpled and out of breath from running.

“Uncle,” Ignis greeted with surprise.

“His Majesty wishes to speak with you,” his uncle said. “I was sent to fetch you—you walk very fast, you know!”

Ignis smiled apologetically. “Long legs,” he explained. “Thank you for letting me know, Uncle.”

“His Majesty is in his study. Best not keep him waiting.”

Ignis nodded, and began to walk back the way he’d come, towards the elevators.

The King’s study was an impressive sight to behold—not for the study itself, mind, though that was nothing to sneeze at. The large mahogany desk, even piled with papers and political reports; the impressive gilded chair; the plush carpet; the crystal filing cabinet; and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves holding all manner of tomes. Noctis had once convinced Ignis to sneak in here with him and find a book which Regis had read to the prince when he was little. He could still remember his blood thrumming with anxiety, certain that they would be caught at any moment and that the king would determine Ignis unfit to serve the prince.

All of that was nice. But the view from the large windows, looking south across all of Insomnia and towards the greater lands of Lucis—that was the truly impressive part.

In front of these windows was where King Regis stood, when Ignis was admitted into the room after a soft knock at the door.

“Ignis,” the King greeted warmly. “How are you?”

“Quite well, your Grace,” Ignis replied, bowing. “And yourself?”

“As well as I can be,” Regis said humbly. “You’re not too shaken up by yesterday’s mishaps, then?”

Was he? Not really. Should he have been? Perhaps. The threat to his life had of course occurred to him, but it had been overshadowed by anxiety about Noctis doing something reckless, by the fear that Gladio hadn’t received his text or didn’t know what to do with it, and, unexpectedly, by trying to figure out how Gian Lupo truly fit into it all. He wasn’t, in the end, entirely surprised when his captor had become his ally.

All in all, he was happier to just forget that any of it happened. It was a little humiliating, after all.

He shook his head. “Mostly, I’m relieved that Noct is safe,” he said truthfully.

“Of course.” Regis smiled warmly. “Your quick thinking saved you both. Sending that text in such a small timeframe and in a stressful situation was nothing less than genius.”

“Thank you,” said Ignis, bowing his head. “I largely have my Crownsguard training to thank, I think.”

Regis chuckled. “Perhaps. For my part, I’m glad that you are both safe and sound. I am only sorry that we didn’t read the now ex-ambassador’s intentions sooner.”

“There was no way to know, your Majesty,” Ignis assured him. “I suspect he had his attendants do the dirty work in order to give himself grounds to claim innocence if the plot were thwarted. If not for his assistant turning whistle-blower, I fear the proceedings may have been even messier.”

“Right you are,” said Regis, even sounding a little impressed—though perhaps that was Ignis’ imagination. “But forget all that, it’s in the past. I trust Noctis has been doing well lately, in your meticulous care?”

Ignis was about to answer that yes, Noctis was doing well, when he remembered how strange the prince had been acting this week. The increased reticence, the reluctance to get out of bed or go to school. The conversation they’d had in the parking garage the evening of the dinner, in which Noctis had heavily implied that he was not, in fact, alright, by his quick redirection of the topic. He’d done remarkably well at the dinner itself, however, which seemed… incongruous.

“For the most part,” Ignis admitted reluctantly, avoiding eye contact.

“Ah,” Regis said softly. “I only ask because he seemed quite subdued talking about himself at dinner the other night. For once, he seemed more comfortable with political discussion—which is about as unalike my son as I can imagine.” He paused. “Not that I’m entirely displeased, if he really has taken to politics more thoroughly now than in the past.”

“I’m… not sure that’s the case,” said Ignis, then explained about Noctis’ strange behaviour as of late.

Regis listened, and when Ignis finished, said nothing for a long moment. He gazed out over the city, dazzling in the sunlight following the previous day’s rain.

“This seems to be the curse of a line like ours,” he said eventually. “One of many, perhaps, but an unexpected one.”

Ignis blinked, dumbfounded. “Your Majesty?”

“To be too busy being a King to be a Father.” He turned his piercing gaze on Ignis. “Which is why I need you.”

This was far afield from what Ignis had expected. “I… I beg your pardon?”

“Perhaps it is a heavy burden,” continued Regis, “but when I asked you, all those years ago, to stand by my son’s side, I did so because I knew… that my duties as King would not allow me to fully devote myself to him and him only. And without his mother, who did he have left?” His voice had become gruff with emotion. “I felt that perhaps you would be able to offer Noctis such a devotion. His calling, his destiny as the Chosen, it…” Regis trailed off, taking a deep, steadying breath. “He deserves someone who can give him that.”

Ignis was all too aware of his own breath, loud in his ears. Of his heart, thumping passionately against his breastbone.

He swallowed, and placed a hand over his thundering heart. “It would be my honour, and my pleasure,” he began, voice cracking slightly, “to be that person.”

Discreetly, Regis lifted a hand to swipe at his eyes. “Of course,” he all but whispered. “Thank you, Ignis.”

The apartment was dead silent. It wasn’t completely dark this time—a few of the curtains had been tweaked open to let in a dusky haze of afternoon light, which at least indicated that Noctis was (or had been) awake and out of bed.

The silence only served to reaffirm Ignis’ suspicions and justify his decision to skip training and come straight here. The only times Noctis’ apartment was silent was when its occupant was either asleep or absent. Otherwise, there was bound to be noise of some description—video games, movies, shows, sometimes soft music as Noctis studied or read through Ignis’ meticulously compiled political summaries. The hiss of the kettle boiling. The sigh of the espresso machine. Failing all that, it wasn’t uncommon to hear Prompto’s bubbly babbling or Gladio’s sarcastic drawl, interjected by Noct’s own melodic laughter.

Today, there was only the dull tick of the kitchen clock.

Ignis found Noctis in the living room, lying on his back on the sofa in black sweats and a t-shirt. His phone lay ignored on the coffee table, notification light flashing.

“Noct?”

It had been said softly, but it was enough to startle Noctis into a sitting position.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

“You almost sound disappointed,” Ignis teased, crossing the room to join Noctis on the couch—sitting on the shorter side of the L, so that he could face him. Close-up, the prince looked dishevelled, hair arranged (by his pillow, no doubt) into something resembling a tangle of black pocket lint. His eyes, as earlier that week, were ringed in reddish-purple, his face a shade paler than usual.

“Wasn’t expecting you,” Noctis mumbled, resettling himself upright on the sofa.

“I did text,” said Ignis.

Noctis glanced at his phone. “Right. Didn’t notice.”

Ignis frowned. “Noct…” His choice of seat put some distance between them, and Ignis could feel that distance as if it were a palpable force. The way two opposing magnets refuse to be pushed together. “Are you okay?”

Noctis stared at a spot on the carpet just in front of his feet, maintaining his silence for a long while.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said finally, gaze still affixed. “Yes, but… no.”

Ignis felt his eyebrows draw together. “How do you mean?” he asked gently.

“It’s, like…” Noctis fidgeted, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. “Most of the time, I feel… bad. I’m so tired, but getting to sleep is so hard—and getting up is even harder.”

Ignis’ heart clenched and his breath caught in his throat. Noctis had described feeling similarly once before, a few months after returning from Tenebrae all those years ago. Ignis wouldn’t have thought to suspect it. He remembered how Noct had been back then: reticent to the nth, no desire to do anything but sleep, a constant air of gloom, and nightmares… oh, the nightmares. Ignis remembered them best of all, remembered being awoken by the creak of the door to his room in the Citadel, remembered the shivering young prince crawling into the bed, slipping under the bedclothes. Ignis, half-asleep, had always held him close and told silly made-up stories about moogles and chocobos and kittens and puppies until the tension seeped out of Noct’s narrow frame and his breathing became deep and even. Then, only then, would he allow himself to drop back off to sleep.

A faint realisation began to stir in Ignis’ mind.

“And all that’s one thing, I’m—I’m used to that,” Noctis continued. “But…” He swallowed. “I don’t know how to explain it. When I go to school, or when I’m around people, or like at that dinner the other night? I know that I don’t feel great, but it’s so easy to just—pretend. It doesn’t even feel like something I’m doing consciously, and I don’t understand how, or why.” His eyes flitted to Ignis and away again. He took a shuddering breath. “It feels like I’m becoming two separate people. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it when people act so… so fake, when they’re clearly pretending all the time, but aren’t I just as bad?”

“Everyone puts on a mask, Noct,” Ignis said quietly. “It makes it easier to face the world, if we’re not exposing our true selves to public scrutiny.”

“I guess.” Noctis’ eyes shifted to Ignis again, and stayed put as he spoke. “I wish you would expose your true self more often, though,” he said. His eyes dropped. “I miss it.” He barked a laugh which was half a sob. “You’re right there, but I miss you!”

What a damn fool Ignis had been.

The invisible force between them disappeared with a half-imagined pop, and he didn’t hesitate to bridge the distance. He sat right beside Noct, their legs flush against each other, and wrapped his arms around him for the second time in as many days. One hand flat against his back, the other curled at the base of his neck.

Noctis didn’t cry, but a suspicious sniffle escaped him as he returned the embrace, burying his face in Ignis’ clavicle and slumping against him.

“I’m sorry,” Ignis whispered, lips close to Noctis’ ear. “I lost sight of what matters most.”

“Maybe I should be asking if you’re okay,” said Noct, breath warm in the hollow of Ignis’ throat. “Especially after yesterday…”

“I’m fine,” Ignis said firmly, rubbing his thumb across the hair at the nape of Noctis’ neck. “I suppose I’ve just been so busy trying to be a good adviser that I forgot how to be a good friend.”

“I should have been a better friend.”

“What an uproarious pity-party this is becoming,” Ignis joked. “You have far too much on your shoulders already. Don’t worry about me.”

He felt the sob that ripped through Noctis as if it were his own. He simply held him tightly, rocking him gently, stroking his back and combing fingers through his unwashed hair.

They stayed that way for a long time. They stayed there, on the sofa, a comfort to one another. Inextricable, as if they were children again.

The following Thursday evening, Ignis arrived at Noctis’ apartment with takeout in hand—it had been a full-on day, and while he’d promised to join Noct for dinner, he hadn’t the energy for grocery shopping or cooking.

Noctis came into the entryway while Ignis was taking his shoes off, looking as if he’d just woken up from a nap.

“So?” he said expectantly. “Am I looking at the newest member of the Crownsguard?”

Ignis looked up and offered a tired but satisfied smile. “The very same,” he said. “What an honour for you.”

Noctis acted out an exaggerated bow—though the effect was somewhat ruined by a wide yawn. “Kind of you to grace such an unimportant peasant such as myself with your magnanimous presence,” he said. “With takeout, too boot.” He took the bag from Ignis’ hand, taking it into the kitchen to inspect the contents.

Rolling his eyes, Ignis followed. Conspicuous on the kitchen island was a flat, black, velvet box.

“Got you a graduation gift,” Noctis said casually, serving himself some stir-fry and not even pretending as if he weren’t picking around the vegetables.

Taken aback (though not unpleasantly), Ignis opened the box. It was a necklace. A small, black skull pendant on a fine, silver chain.

He was even further taken aback by how thoughtfully appropriate it was.

“Thank you, Noct,” he said quietly.

Noctis looked up, cheeks slightly pink as he flashed a brief smile.

From then on, Ignis vowed to himself: he would put his friendship with Noctis first, and his duty to him second. They were similar in some ways, and overlapped in some places, but they were hardly the same thing. While Noctis would need each at different times, he primarily wanted his friends to be just that—friends. With friends, more than with retainers, he could (at least for a little while) forget the heavy burden bearing down upon him, and the still heavier destiny that lay in wait on his future’s horizon.

Ignis wished he could make it all go away, take it all from him and just let him be a normal boy; grow into a normal man at his own pace. He wished, oh how he wished…

But he could only do so much. It would have to be enough.

(It would never be enough.)