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Why did waking up always have to be such a struggle?
Did it have something to do with the gargantuan headaches? Probably. Was Noctis already nearing the end of his rope from being on the road for so long? Most likely. Was it related to him being depressed as all hell because his father was dead, his home in ruins, the pressure on him to fix everything and be the capital-K King, and because that was just sort of how he was sometimes?
Almost definitely.
Still, there was something different about waking up today. The intangible weight pressing him into the lumpy caravan mattress was there; the paradoxically sharp/dull ache in his temples was there; the general malaise was there, too, burrowed into every pore like parasites.
That was all fairly normal. But something was off. He could feel it.
Who cares? whispered the weight holding Noctis down. He mentally agreed, and tried to go back to sleep.
But he couldn’t let the thought go.
Eventually, he could no longer ignore it, struggling against the invisible weight to roll over and face the caravan’s interior.
Empty. The others were probably already up and about…
Wait. Was that—was it dusk outside? Had Noctis slept through the entire day?
A haze of shame and guilt descended over him. Great. He’d halted progress for a full day just because—
Okay, hold on. That made no sense. There was no way the guys would let him stay in bed all day. They’d at least haul him to the car so they could cover some ground while he curled into his own little ball of sadness in the back. Something was really off.
With Herculean effort, he shoved the weight to one side and sat up. As he did, the caravan door creaked open and Prompto trotted up the steps. They made eye contact, both pausing like they’d been caught doing something lucrative. Then Prompto’s expression dissolved into joyful relief.
“Noct,” he said, “you’re awake! How ya feelin’?”
Noctis blinked. “Um—”
“Ugh, stupid question, sorry.” Prompto scrubbed self-consciously at the back of his head. “Feeling… better, at least?”
“Better?”
“Uh, yeah. You kinda…” Prompto trailed off. “Noct, do you… remember what happened?”
Noctis wasn’t even aware that something had happened. He slowly shook his head, casting his mind back. He remembered waking up yesterday morning—or, shit, was that this morning? Cauthess Rest Area. That was where they were staying. They were on their way to a hunt? Yeah, they were on their way to a hunt. Bulettes! They were hunting bulettes. Then…
Prompto sat down across from him. “What do you remember?”
“A dropship?” Noctis said. His head was throbbing from all this thinking.
“Yeah,” Prompto said severely. “They ambushed us when we were already worn out. Some axemen and a couple riflemen… ringing any bells?”
“Not really. Sorry.” Ugh, this headache was getting on his nerves. He hated headaches. He really, truly did.
“Hey, don’t be,” Prompto said, bumping his fist on Noctis’ shoulder. “But, uh, basically, there was this terrifying earthquake, and I guess you had one of your brain-quakes.” He chuckled half-heartedly. “Wow, I really shouldn’t be making jokes right now. You were out cold, dude. Must’ve been bad. Anyway, um…” He glanced nervously towards the door. “Maybe I shouldn’t…”
“No,” said Noctis. “Tell me.” He had two things to thank Prompto for: filling him in, and reminding him that his headache wasn’t so bad after all. Because he remembered, now. This ache was nothing next to the feeling of magma slamming into the crown of his head, melting through his skull, dripping down onto his brain and burning away everything that made him himself. Until all that was left was searing hot pain. Flames, superhot blue and violet and sunset orange. An orb. An eye—a window into a soul of molten rock.
Yeah. The weak throb squeezing the sides of his head was a pinprick in comparison.
Prompto swallowed. “You won’t like it, but I guess you’ll find out eventually. So… yeah. You were having a bad time, being unconscious and stuff, and one of the riflemen tried to, uh, take advantage of that. And. Ignis was closest to you, so he—”
The last part of what Prompto said was drowned out by something like TV static in Noctis’ ears, but he got the gist. That was it. That was the something that had felt off.
He extricated his legs from the scratchy blanket and vaulted to his feet.
“Whoa, hey!” Prompto leapt up to catch him as vertigo sent him careening towards the floor. “He’s okay, I swear! Gladio got the bullet out of his shoulder, he took a potion, and he’s almost good as new!” His anxious eyes didn’t leave Noctis’ face as he helped him to his feet. “Okay?”
“What a dumbass,” Noctis hissed.
“Uhh, sorry, but I’d be thanking him if I were you. You coulda died!”
“So could he!”
Prompto had no rejoinder to that. Noctis took the moment of indecision as an opportunity to pull away and stalk (definitely not stumble, because his legs did not feel like overcooked noodles) to the door.
Ignis and Gladio were sitting on the crappy plastic chairs outside the caravan. They looked up at him with matching expressions of surprise.
“Noct,” Ignis spoke first. “Are you alright?”
A dam somewhere in Noctis’ mind collapsed, and out of nowhere, he was flooded with scalding hot rage. “Never mind that.” The matching crappy plastic table, he noticed, still sported the first aid kit, its innards splayed across the table top. No evidence of any of it having been used—no blood-soaked gauze, or (Astrals forbid) the offending bullet, but Noctis could see the clean white bandage peering at him from just under Ignis’ collar. “Never mind me,” he rephrased. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Ignis’ eyebrows raised halfway to his hairline. “I beg your pardon?”
Gladio leaned forwards. “Noct—”
“You stay out of this,” Noctis snapped, turning his glare onto Gladio. The Shield stared back for a moment, then held up both hands in surrender, stood, and walked past Noctis to get into the caravan. He closed the door behind him.
Ignis was watching Noctis carefully. Waiting to see what he would do. Wondering how to calm him down, probably. The notion made Noctis so irrationally furious that his next word burst free of him like air from a punctured balloon. “Well?”
“ ‘Well’, what?” Ignis asked calmly. As if asking for the damn time.
“Care to explain nearly getting yourself killed?”
“A bullet to the shoulder,” Ignis sighed, “is hardly life-threatening.”
“That’s just… luck! You’re lucky it wasn’t worse!” Fucking hell he wished his head would stop keening so he could think straight; put together a logical argument; not make an idiot of himself. But no! He was an overfull pot of boiling water, bubbling and steaming out of control. “What if you’d punctured a lung? Or—or what if it had hit you in the—”
“Those options are still preferable by far to the alternative.” Ignis was so frustratingly calm, his face a cool mask. It pissed Noctis off ever further.
“What alternative?” he demanded. He felt a little woozy. Like all that anger had turned to acid in his bloodstream, eating away the parts of his brain that controlled rational thinking and self-regulation. It would explain the headache, at least.
“Oh, I wonder, Noct.” There it was. A touch of irritation. “Had that bullet not ended up in my shoulder, it likely would have ended up in your head. That is something I cannot abide.”
Noctis opened his mouth. Closed it. A spike of pain lodged itself just above his left eyebrow. He winced. Ignis’ stern façade melted, revealing a concerned frown. Fuck him for having his priorities straight.
“It was still… reckless,” Noctis said, but his ‘argument’ sounded weak and watery even to his own ears. He felt sick.
“What would you have had me do, Noct?” Ignis asked quietly. “And anyway, it’s all conjecture. It’s in the past, and nothing can change it.” He sighed. “We’re both alive. Is that not enough?”
No. It wasn’t enough. There was something deeply wrong about everything but Noctis hardly had the mental faculty to riddle it out right now, as more pain drove a polearm through his head. Nausea surged into his throat, sending him stumbling into the side of the caravan with a dry heave.
Distantly, he heard his name, heard footsteps, felt a hand on his shoulder. But, with his eyes shut tight, all that he was properly aware of was in his head with him. The pain. The voice of reprimand—You’re such a child, making yourself sick from your own tantrum.
No shred of anger remained. The pot had tipped, and it had all turned to vapour and twirled away into the atmosphere. All that remained was a dark cloud of shame, worthlessness, disappointment. You’re supposed to be the prince. The king. But all you are is pathetic.
Yeah. I know. Thanks for the reminder.
Once he’d finished retching, he let Ignis help him to the nearest crappy plastic chair, check his temperature, hold his face in gloved hands, and say firmly, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Haven’t done anything right, either.
By noon the following day, they were finally on the road again. Out of Cauthess Rest Area, headed west towards Greyshire to finally follow up on Talcott’s hot tip for a potential royal arm.
They’d left so late in the day to give Ignis the time to take a couple more potions and completely see off the bullet wound on his shoulder. Noctis, for his part, spent the whole morning sleeping. He felt much better and headache-free by the time they set off after a quick lunch (breakfast, for Noctis) at the Crow’s Nest.
Ignis tactfully failed to mention Noctis’ meltdown the night before. If the other two had heard anything from inside the caravan, they, too, kept their silence. No one said anything of what had happened the day before at all, In fact. To Noctis’ relief.
He couldn’t help but notice the troubled looks Ignis shot him in the rear view mirror from time to time. Eventually he would want to talk about what had happened; thoroughly interrogate Noctis as to the state of his mental health. Noctis was more than happy to put that conversation off for as long as possible. If he could avoid it altogether, that would be even better.
Of course, the best way to achieve that was to avoid being alone with Ignis. At least for a little while. To let the leaves settle.
They stopped to camp at a haven near Taelpar Crag. Noctis offered to collect firewood with Gladio in Prompto’s stead.
“You can’t avoid him forever,” Gladio said out of the blue, stacking dry twigs in Noctis’ arms.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Noctis said.
Gladio rolled his eyes, but didn’t press the issue.
They reached Burbost Souvenir Emporium by late afternoon the next day. Noctis’ headache had yet to return, but the heaviness in his limbs had started to creep back in, so it was probably only a matter of time.
Prompto was craning his neck to get a look at the waterfall as Ignis pulled in. “So the cave is behind there?”
“So the legend goes,” Ignis replied. “I imagine we’ll get a better view from below the overpass.”
“Only question is, do we go now, or wait ‘til morning?” Gladio posed.
“Your call, Noct!” sang Prompto.
It shouldn’t have been a tough decision. They’d done nothing but sit in the car all day, but Noctis had not slept well last night, tortured by guilt as Ignis lay a scant inch away from him. Rolling into a caravan bunk and sleeping until morning sounded like something he definitely wanted to do.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple. His friends wouldn’t let him get away with skipping dinner, and they’d probably ask questions he didn’t want to answer, and Ignis would have ample opportunity to catch him alone.
All of it was so fucking selfish of him. There were better justifications for getting this royal arm as soon as possible, the biggest one being that they didn’t have all year. The Empire wasn’t just going to wait for Noctis to be ready—he needed to get his shit together and get on with things.
“Might as well get it over with,” he said.
Ignis shot him an inscrutable look in the rear view.
It was surprisingly nice at the foot of the waterfall, even if there was a nest of aggressive shieldshears trying to kill them.
Shieldshears were tank-like, and had sharp pincers, but that wasn’t really enough to make them threatening. They moved slowly, which made it easy to loop around behind and take them down.
Nonetheless—and Noctis didn’t know if it was his imagination, something new, or something he’d been too ignorant to notice before now—throughout the entire battle, Ignis barely let him get more than a few arm’s lengths away. For the most part, he even seemed to insist on ‘helping’ Noctis take down the same crab, though it was hardly necessary.
By the time the last shieldshear collapsed, shell and pincers clattering on the rocks, the observation had spawned irritation.
Ignis must have noticed something in his expression. “Alright, Noct?”
“Fine.”
The worst part was that, thinking on it, Noctis was pretty sure that this wasn’t a new thing. Any time he ever tripped up, was injured, or went into stasis in battle, Ignis was the first one there. Helping him up. Breaking a potion or ether or elixir over him. Giving words of encouragement.
Hadn’t Ignis been near him the whole time they were fighting the bulettes? When that dropship arrived? The notion stuck in Noctis’ mind like burned grease on an old frying pan. Ignis had gotten hurt because he was close by to Noctis, close enough to take a hit for him. Why did Ignis stay so close? Because he worried too much.
As they fought their way through the icy tunnels, warning each other not to slip and ignoring Prompto’s griping, Noctis paid close attention to where Ignis chose to go once battle broke out. Sure enough, the answer was (unfailingly): to Noctis.
In retaliation, to prove that he didn’t need his hand held at the age of twenty, Noctis forged ahead, throwing himself into battle, warp after warp, bringing himself dangerously close to stasis a few times.
“Slow down,” Gladio scolded, as, even before the dying squeals of the latest circus of goblins had dissipated, Noctis set off into the next cavern.
“The sooner we find the tomb and get out, the better, right?” Noctis called over his shoulder, not stopping. He wasn’t lying, either—it was getting late, and it was freezing, and the biggest obstacle between Noctis and sleep was the nigh unnavigable cave system they were stuck in.
He could feel his friends exchanging glances behind him, but they said nothing further. He told himself he didn’t care. Let them think what they want.
By the time they finally found the tomb, and then their way back to the entrance, it was well after sunset. That, in and of itself, would have been tolerable. The return of the skull-splitting headache was considerably less so.
The worst part, however, was the hundred-foot Midgarsormr waiting for them on their way back to the stairs, looming out of the darkness just to make sure their night was thoroughly ruined.
Despite its prodigious size, the snake was one slippery bastard. Even warping as fast and as often as he could, Noctis could hardly keep up with the thing.
“I don’t even think we’re hurting it!” Prompto cried, as they took a moment to regroup.
“It’s strong,” Gladio growled hoisting his shield a little higher. “Stronger than us.”
“Noct,” said Ignis. “We must retreat.”
“It’s too close to the road,” said Noctis and warped out from behind the cover of Gladio’s shield before anyone could tell him he was being a moron.
Inevitably, he lost track of how many times he’d warped in a row, and, shortly after that, crashed to the ground with a sour ache in his veins.
In the single most predictable plot twist of the entire week so far, he was in stasis.
The flattened grass felt like sandpaper under his hands and knees. His stomach twisted, very nearly ejecting the protein bar he’d wolfed down about an hour ago, in lieu of a proper dinner.
Around him, the battle continued to wage, but his head was too heavy to lift and look at what was going on.
Idiot, he chided himself. You knew this was going to happen, and you let it happen. You wanted it to happen.
I didn’t! he protested. I didn’t want this! I just wanted—
“Noct!”
In some distant part of his mind, he knew exactly what was happening before he managed to lift his head. And when he did, when he saw Ignis leaping towards him as the Midgarsormr’s tail swept in a great circle, the only thought in Noctis’ head was that he’d failed.
Ignis grabbed him a split second before they were both sent flying.
If Noctis’ head didn’t hurt before, it certainly did after smacking it on the hard ground. He groaned, pushing at the weight on top of him, forgetting in his moment of stasis-induced delirium that that weight was Ignis.
“Apologies,” said Ignis, as he pushed himself up into a kneeling position. The word was stretched thin with strain.
Noctis’ vision grew fuzzy with tears. “I did it again,” he croaked.
Ignis’ pained expression turned to concern. “Noct?” but Noctis was spared from having to explain himself by Gladio’s yell.
“Iggy! We’ve gotta get out of here!”
“Roger!” Ignis shouted back. He winced, a hand going to his ribcage. “Noct, can you walk?”
“I can’t do anything,” Noctis moaned.
“I’m afraid this isn’t really the best time for another emotional breakdown,” Ignis said, not unsympathetically. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and grabbed Noctis’ arm to pull him into a sitting position.
In the next instant, Gladio was there. “Go!” he barked at Ignis, grabbing Noctis and mercilessly tossing him over a broad shoulder.
This stasis refused to let go. Every jostle and bounce sent pain lancing between his temples, but Noctis just sank his teeth into his lip and stared at the ground rushing by above his head. The ground had become the sky. Which meant the sky was the ground. Did that mean he could walk on the sky? A fractured laugh bubbled up (down?) his throat at the ridiculous notion.
They came to a stop at the foot of the stairs. Gladio flipped Noctis upright and set him on his feet, steadying him with hands on both shoulders.
“You good?” he asked, a little breathless. But Noctis’ mind and senses were a few frames behind his body, the sensation of being turned upright just now catching up with him.
He pushed away from Gladio and was violently sick into a nearby bush.
An ether, some mouthwash, and a little bit of time later, Noctis almost felt like himself again. That is: he still felt like shit. Just at a more manageable level. A regular level of shit.
Their second caravan in three days was just as cramped as the last. Noctis sat on a bunk, knees pulled miserably into his chest, watching Gladio and Ignis poking at the latter’s heavily bruised ribcage in the kitchenette. The wide band of sickly purple wrapped from Ignis’ right side around his back, where the Midgarsormr’s tail had hit him. The sight of it set off a low, malicious static in the middle distance of Noctis’ mind.
“I don’t think anything’s broken,” Gladio confirmed, handing Ignis a potion.
“No, just cracked. Much like you lot,” Ignis jibed. Crack. Whoosh. Blue light swirled around Ignis’ bare torso. The bruising faded and receded, yellowing at the edges.
Across from Noctis, Prompto shuddered. “Man, creeps me out every time. Seeing wounds get better just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Ignis slipped his shirt back on and began to button it up. “Such is the Power of Kings.” He smiled. “There was a time when no one thought to infuse magic with everyday consumables. Then a long time following the discovery, when curatives could only be afforded by the uppermost castes of Lucian society. Ever since the Inventor King discovered a reliable method of mass-production, however, they’ve become as commonplace as their mundane counterparts.”
“With great power, comes great profit,” Prompto said sagely.
“And responsibility,” Gladio added sternly. He turned to Noctis. “Speaking of which, don’t go doing that again.”
Noctis blinked, startled at suddenly being addressed.
Gladio continued. “You can’t throw yourself around like that and expect any result other than stasis or worse. You were trained better than that.” He paused. “And you were taught to pick your battles. I don’t know what the hell you were trying to prove back there, but all you proved to me was that you have some sort of death wish. You can’t put yourself in danger and then throw a one-man pity party when someone gets hurt trying to save you from yourself.”
Silence descended over the caravan as if a bomb had just wrought widespread destruction.
Noctis stared at Gladio. Then he looked at Ignis and Prompto in turn, both of whom were pointedly looking away. Gladio was still glaring expectantly.
“Is that all?” Noctis asked, uncurling his legs and setting his feet on the floor.
Gladio sighed, expression relaxing. “Yeah. Just don’t do it again.”
Noctis nodded tersely, and stood. The deafening silence persisted as he brushed past Gladio to get to the door, stepping out into the chilly night.
Burbost wasn’t much of an outpost. Just a shop (currently closed), bright lights, and a caravan for hire. A safe place to stay the night. Not much more.
Noctis couldn’t stand to be in that caravan at the moment. The worst part about Gladio’s reprimand was that he was right, about all of it. What had he even been trying to prove? Why? For the life of him, he couldn’t grasp any reason, and definitely not one that was remotely sane. And how selfish of him to be sulking, yet again, when he wasn’t even the one who’d gotten hurt.
Yet, he sulked. He sulked all the way to the Regalia, which had the roof up in case of overnight rain. He sulked as he got in and didn’t bother to lock the door, lying down across the back seat. He continued to sulk.
He doubted he could pull himself out of his funk if he tried, and he just couldn’t be bothered trying. He supposed he was more depressed than ever. Add to that the headaches, messing with his already fucked up headspace, making him act like a lunatic and then leaving him wondering what the hell he’d been thinking, if at all.
The others were probably upset with him. Rightfully. Well, Gladio definitely was, and the other two hadn’t even wanted to look at him. He could have gotten them all killed—and for what? The pure irony of it!
He’d only been thinking of himself. As per usual.
As he lay there, that impalpable weight came over him like an old friend he’d never really liked, pressing him into the seat leather, fusing into his limbs and head.
He’d fallen into an uncomfortable sort of half-doze when the shotgun door opened and someone got in, closing the door gently behind them.
Noctis could tell instantly that it was Ignis. Only Ignis would take so much care not to make too much noise. Only Ignis would sit there for another silent minute before finally speaking.
“We need to talk about this.”
“Talk, then,” Noctis grunted.
Ignis sighed. “Let me rephrase: you need to tell me what’s going on in your head, so that I might help you.”
Noctis pushed and pulled himself upright. “Well. Where do I begin?” he said bitterly. “Our parents are all dead—my dad being the king, by the way, meaning I’m responsible for a kingdom now. Except, that kingdom has been taken over and our homes destroyed, so I’m more of a royal refugee than a king. Oh, and did I mention the newest development? The earthquakes giving me headaches so bad I pass out, and nearly get one of the few people I care about killed.” He paused. His heart and breathing had quickened with every word as he riled himself up.
“It’s just… you know,” he continued. “It’s bad enough that my father sacrificed an entire city just to save me. I don’t want—” His throat closed mid-sentence.
“I know,” Ignis said quietly. “It’s hard. It’s all much too hard. But if anything were to happen to you that I know I could have prevented, I’m not sure I could forgive myself.”
“Don’t you think I feel the same way?!” Noctis took a deep breath. “You’re right. It is hard. But I’m supposed to have some sort of big destiny to fulfil, right? No matter how hard it gets, I bet the universe won’t let me die before it gets to put me through whatever hell it has planned.”
“That’s a foolishly dangerous way of thinking, Noct.”
“More dangerous than throwing yourself in front of a firing gun? Or right in the way of a giant snake attack?” Ignis had no response to that. “I know you just… care too much, Ignis, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think you had some sort of… martyr complex. Or something.”
“Well if I didn’t know better, I, like Gladio, would think perhaps you wanted to get hurt,” Ignis shot back.
Oh, yeah, now he had the witty comeback. “Maybe I do,” Noctis said flippantly.
“Or,” Ignis continued, “I might even think that you don’t believe you deserve to be saved from getting hurt.”
Noctis wondered why Ignis had bothered asking him to share his thoughts, when he clearly already knew exactly what was going on.
“What have I ever done to deserve anything?” Noctis muttered. “Anything good, I mean.”
“You certainly haven’t done anything to deserve all the bad,” Ignis said, matter-of-factly. “Fate truly does seem to have it out for you. You’ve already endured so much because of it, and that’s precisely why you deserve good things. Well, one of many reasons I could think of, but I may be a bit biased.”
For some reason, tears were gathering in Noctis’ eyes. His head felt hot and fit to burst, and not just because of the omnipresent headache.
“Okay.” He couldn’t handle this conversation anymore. He lay back down across the seat.
Ignis didn’t say anything, and a moment later Noctis heard the door open, then close.
He’s finally given up on you, said the weight, sliding up Noctis’ spine to whisper in his ear. But then he felt a cool gust of air on the top of his head as the back passenger-side door opened.
Noctis looked up. Ignis made a shooing gesture with his hand, and Noctis nudged the weight away with his shoulder, pushing himself up enough to give Ignis room to sit down and close the door. Then he lay down once again, head pillowed in Ignis’ lap.
Ignis wasn’t wearing his gloves. His right hand went to Noctis’ hair, ruffling and smoothing it like a cat’s fur. The left landed on his shoulder, a weight far different, far warmer and more comforting than the weight, which was cold and hard in comparison.
Noctis closed his eyes and let himself be comforted. Cared for. Cared about.
“I’ll never understand,” Ignis said after a short while, “how even after several days on the road, your hair manages to stay so soft.”
If he’d had the energy, Noctis might have laughed. Instead he mumbled, “Magic.”
“His Highness is magical indeed,” Ignis said warmly. “And more kind-hearted than he has ever given himself credit for. Caring. Empathetic. Hard-working. Talented. Intelligent in ways that few recognise, let alone himself. Completely undeserving of all the misfortune, pain, and heartbreak life has foisted upon him.”
Noctis’ breath hitched. He sniffed wetly.
Ignis leaned down and pressed a small kiss to Noctis’ cheekbone. Then he spoke softly, breath warm and gentle on the shell of Noctis’ ear. “And I would do anything to never have to see him suffer again.” He straightened. “Nonetheless. If you wish for me to give you some space in battle, and make sure to mind myself first and foremost, I will. But only so long as you do the same, and keep your reckless streak in check.”
Noctis was afraid to speak for fear that anything he said would come out as a sob; that he would simply dissolve into a crying mess on Ignis’ lap. He nodded stiffly.
“Good,” Ignis murmured, giving his shoulder a soft squeeze. “Come, now. We could both use some proper rest.”
“Please,” Noctis forced out. “A little longer.” With his right hand, he grabbed the hand on his shoulder, pulling it down to his chest. He tucked Ignis’ arm under his own left arm, wrapping both hands around Ignis’ hand. Hugging it, as if it were a stuffed toy, and Noctis a child freshly awoken from a nightmare. He certainly felt like a child. A small voice in the back of his head tried to berate him for it, but he just clutched more tightly and clamped his damp eyelids shut and focused on the sensation of Ignis’ deft fingers in his hair.
“A little longer,” Ignis relented.
A little longer later, Ignis finally coaxed him out of the car. Noctis scrubbed at his eyes, feeling drained and all too glad that there was no one else around to see him post-breakdown. Just Ignis. Who had seen it all and much worse before.
Ignis made sure the car was locked, then came and brought a hand to rest just under Noctis’ jaw, touch light, as if he were handling spun glass He peered into Noctis’ undoubtedly red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m okay, Specs. Really,” Noctis assured him. He dropped eye contact for a moment. “Sorry for yelling at you, back in Cauthess. And for avoiding you. And… thanks. For saving me. From myself.”
“Not at all,” Ignis said. “You know Gladio is only concerned, don’t you? He’s your Shield. His instinct is to protect you. He sees a threat he can’t physically kill, and that frightens him.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And Prompto, of course, is worried about his best friend.”
“I know.”
Ignis lightly tapped the side of Noctis’ face with his thumb. “You’ll apologise to them, too, won’t you?”
Noctis nodded.
Ignis let out a small sigh through his nose, bringing his other hand up to cradle Noctis’ head. “If I do slip up in my promise to put myself first, please know that it is only out of love.”
A tiny fluttering in Noctis’ chest drew an involuntary smile onto his face. “Love you, too, Specs.”
A matching smile transformed Ignis’ expression. Then he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on Noctis’ lips, so small and quick that it was barely there, but so tender that Noctis could feel heat rising in his cheeks.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Consider it a good luck charm,” Ignis quipped.
Noctis chuckled. “I’ll keep it with me always.”
“See that you do.” He dropped his hands to Noctis’ shoulders, and then away completely. “I suppose it was quite reckless of me to jump directly into the line of fire,” he mused as they walked back to the caravan.
“Really now?” said Noctis.
“I was holding a dagger in each hand,” he continued.
“Daggers which you… can throw.”
“Indeed. I get tunnel-vision when it comes to your safety, Noct.”
They stopped in front of the caravan door. “What about the snake?” Noctis probed, voice low in case Gladio and/or Prompto were asleep already.
Ignis considered it. “It was unlikely that I would have gotten out of the way in time, anyway.”
“Right,” Noctis agreed. “You just… wanted to hold me as you were pummelled by snake-tail?”
“Perhaps.” Ignis smirked. “Does that offend your Highness’ delicate sensibilities?”
Noctis narrowed his eyes. “I suppose it’s permissible.”
“Gracious as always, Noct.”
“That’s me. And twice as tired.”
Ignis chuckled, and touched Noctis’ arm once more before opening the caravan door for him. “You’d best get your beauty sleep, then,” he whispered.