Archive of Our Own

wicked eyes, wicked hearts

the world’s a little more fucked up every day

• ‘Imperfection’; Evanescence

Lestallum has changed from the last time Noctis had seen it. The wide balconies that provided a fantastic view of the Duscaean landscape had gone, hidden by the high walls that have been constructed in their place. There were ramparts on the upper areas, where men and women in black, with the hunters’ sigil on their chest, patrolled the walkways, eyes on the people below, and their guns strapped to the sides of their belts. When Gladio parked the car where the old fountain had been, he raised a hand to one of the men, who saluted in-turn, hand over heart like the former Crownsguard of the Kings of Lucis. Noctis doesn’t say anything, merely raking his eyes over the cement and steel – the bones of protection that shielded one of the last few bastions of humanity during the Long Night.

“Still so hot, right?” Prompto asked from the backseat, putting his camera back in his bag. Noctis turned to him, the corner of his lip tilting upwards for a bit. He didn’t really notice it, that much. The time he had spent in the Ghorovas Rift – slowly freezing to death – had made him, well, a little more fucking grateful for the heat.

“Wuss.” He said, imitating the gruff tone of his Shield and lover. He doesn’t miss the gleam of amusement in those amber eyes. Prompto rolled his eyes, getting out of the seat, with Noctis following, hand on his hip as he looked up at the capital of the new republic. “Gladio’s rubbed off on you too much, buddy. Next thing I know, you’re pumping iron.”

The city had grown larger – wider – than the small town he used to spend so much time lounging about in. There was a difference to the architecture, though. He can, sort of, guess which buildings had been built during the Night and which were built after. Those built during the Night were set higher, as if Lestallum had grown upwards then, the clumsily constructed towers with flood lights installed in almost every corner, stone and steel and wood built in the hopes of lasting more than a day, a week. The buildings that grew outwards – to the outskirts – were much newer, more evenly built and, well, with slightly better design than wood panels and stone. That was understandable, Noctis thinks. When you’re fighting for your fucking life and every day was a literal goddamn nightmare, you take what you get – even if it means sleeping on a poorly-made wooden ledge by the side of a gaping hole in the wall. Lestallum hadn’t been prepared to be the rallying point of the refugees. Sacrifices had to be made.

Still, that doesn’t change the fact that he sort of missed the view, the rolling hills and the mountain ridges in the distance, the Taelpar Crag – before it had filled with water – a gaping valley that split the land in two and the then-Disc of Cauthess and the Meteor, glowing in the distance.

He’d have loved to explore it, if his stomach hadn’t reminded him that it’s been a few hours since he’s last eaten and that consisted mostly of a granola bar and an apple, because Gladio was a fucking health nut – which meant weirdo to Noctis, anyway.

“Can we, like, get some food first?” He asks, putting a hand over his stomach as Gladio locks the car behind him. It was no Regalia – never knew what happened to it after he stepped into the Crystal – but it did its job, if for the ridiculous Hammerhead sticker on the back. He can’t help but grin, though. Cindy had put that on when they swung by to visit on the way here – and he grimaces as he can still feel the wrench hitting him in the shoulder. Hell hath no fury like a woman ridiculously happy to see her long-presumed dead friend and best customer.

Prompto agrees from the side and he follows the two as they make their way past the street cutting through Lestallum. He remembers how there used to be an open market here, in between the shops, where vendors pushed their carts – the mixture of the smell of skewered meat and fruits leaving him heady – and tables set on the side. Now, there are hastily made houses – wooden, roof made with scrap metal – set to the sides, barely with any windows. They looked empty, though, like it’s been a while since anyone lived.

“Refugees.” Gladio answers, when he turns to him to ask. “We had to make do with what we had around. When the light came back and we got some order around to do anything, we made sure housing was available to those who had lost their homes.”

Noctis nods, pursing his lips at the trash pooling by the sides of the shanties. “Yeah, well, is this place still as confusing as ever?”

“It wouldn’t be Lestallum if it weren’t.” Prompto grins from the side, and even Gladio smirks.

He sighs, already expecting it. “Well, I’ll leave the exploration for later. Where’s the nearest restaurant?”

Prompto makes an excitable noise that is just – well, so Prompto – and it’s been something Noctis hadn’t seen in a while. “Oh, wait, there’s this place I know you’ll love— “

Shaking his head, he turns to Gladio and smiles and watches as their blond friend starts running ahead of them. Gladio chuckles, deep and rumbling, and places a warm arm around his shoulders – together, they follow Prompto through Lestallum’s haphazard streets.

Food, first, obvi-fuckingly-ously. Then, Ignis. That’d be fine by Noctis’ book.

∞

“Hey, Noct…” Prompto began, voice unsure. Noctis turns to him as they slowly walk up towards the city hall. It’s been a while since he’s heard that kind of tone and he slows down for a bit. Gladio, his Shield, stops beside him, a hand on Noctis’ waist, and Noctis leans a bit into the support. Prompto glances back at him, blue-violet eyes shifting, then sighs. “I—well, Gladio and I, probably, need to tell you something about Iggy. Before we actually go meet him.”

Noctis frowns, at the faint apprehension in his bestfriend’s voice. He turns to Gladio and his Shield’s gaze is somewhat troubled. “What? What is it?”

Prompto’s shoulders are both tense and slumped. Noctis doesn’t know how that’s possible – it’s unnerving. “It’s just—well, um, when you—“

“Iggy got low when you were gone, Noct.” Gladio cuts in, voice soft but his words are clear-cut. The frustrated exhale from Prompto has Noctis turning to his Shield. There’s a frown marring his features, the hand on his waist curling to press his fingers against the skin under Noctis’ shirt. “He broke. Sort of. During the Long Night, he—he changed, Noct. Losing you changed him.” Changed us, those were the unspoken words.

Noctis swallows as a hand falls on his shoulder and Prompto’s grip tightens. “It’s not your fault, Noct. Never have been. It just hit really hard when you were gone, made us realize how important you were – are – to us, buddy.”

“Yeah, don’t ever think that you don’t matter to us,” Gladio says, eyes boring into his, “but you needed to know that it changed us. Iggy, especially.”

“Changed him how?” He asks, slight irritation running with the apprehension at Gladio and Prompto’s evasiveness.

His Shield purses his lips, amber eyes looking elsewhere before turning back to him. “I think it’s best that you hear it from Iggy. It’s something that should be between the two of you.”

“Yeah, Noct. No matter what happens, we’re here for you.” Prompto says, quietly, grip still tight. “And we’re not leaving, now that you’re back.”

“Damn right,” Gladio responds, smiling a bit and his eyes twinkling. Noctis looks at them for a moment, takes in the sureness in them, before nodding. He grabs the hand on his side and squeezes it, threading their fingers close.

“Alright. Thanks. For telling me.”

The city hall of Lestallum loomed over from the steps – the EXINERIS power plant towering behind it, the sun cutting through the shingles. Noctis looks up, breathes – and climbs.

∞

The city hall wasn’t as impressive as he actually thought it would be. It was, by no means, simple but it did pale in comparison to the government offices back in Insomnia. Then again, he sorts of gets it – Prompto did mention that the republic has only been functioning for a few short years. Even the First Secretary’s estate in Altissia – Old Altissia, apparently – was grander. He particularly didn’t care about whether it was luxurious looking or not but it did seem to sink in that, well, eight years really did pass by and that people had kept living on.

Gladio and Prompto stood by his sides, and the two guards – hunters – saluted to his Shield. He sometimes forgets that Gladio had taken command of the hunters after the Long Night – he’d blame it on the easy nostalgia that tinges the vibe during the ride to Lestallum – but the ease of how Gladio returns the salute just pushes it all the way deep.

“Lord Amicitia, we were not expecting you, sir.” Says one of the men, dropping his hand. “We’ll have the President informed at—“

Gladio waves the man away. “No need. Is Iris around?”

The hunter shakes his head. “I’m sorry, my lord. Madam Amicitia is on the way to Olympus with Mr. Hester, sir. She just left this morning.”

Noctis raises a brow as Gladio shakes his head, sighing. “Damn kid can’t even be bothered to tell her brother where she’s goin’.”

Prompto chuckles from the side. “C’mon, big guy. She’s thirty-three and a damned good hunter in her own right. Iris can handle herself.” He pats his Shield on the shoulder. “I’d be a lot more worried about the person standing in her way. You Amicitias are terrifying.”

Small smiles grow on the lips of the two hunters as Gladio glares at Prompto, but the blond man is barely affected as he walks to Noctis’ side.

Noctis, on the other hand, is lost in thought – he remembers Prompto telling him about new lands rising, and this Olympus did not ring any bells for him. There was also the fact that Iris was – what, thirty three? – and this Mr. Hester, could it be Talcott? Iris was fifteen when he last saw her in Cape Caem, and if he’d been gone for eighteen years, that’d make Talcott twenty-eight, then. He frowns, hands dropping to the sides, suddenly feeling old in his skin.

It was so easy to surrender to that despair, of knowing that people had lived on without you, time had moved on without you and what had been mere moments for Noctis had been decades for the rest. It was so easy to think he could just realign himself with the world in his mind and memories and the world under his skin and it was just so damn easy for that fragile hope to start breaking at the edges, for him to fall into a slump, haunted by the notion that he didn’t belong.

But—

He looks up at Gladio, and sees the man looking back at him. His eyes were rustic, warm and accepting.

Noctis nods, just a little. Live. One word. Four letters. A promise he was never going break. He has all the time in the world, hasn’t he?

Prompto’s light touch of his elbow echoes the response before his mind even tries to formulate one.

“Sucks,” He says, raising a hand to rest on his waist. “Would have loved to see those kids.”

The corner of Gladio’s lip rises, his eyes flashing. Proud. “We could, after this. Maybe you’d want to visit Olympus?”

His bestfriend literally jumps on the spot. “Oh, yeah. Remember those lands I told you? Olympus is amazing. Haven’t been there yet, but Talcott says that it’s filled with so many ruins. He and Dr. Sania think that they were ancient civilizations that were flooded in the past. I bet it’d be awesome to see it for real.”

Titan’s blessing, a part of his mind whispers and Noctis nods, unsure if it’s directed at Prompto or his own musings. With the Archaean’s eternal sleep – their death, Shiva had said – lands were raised from under the oceans and Leviathan had blessed them to bear life. He turns his head, and past the tall towers and the Lestallum wall, he sees the faint outline of the Rock of Ravatogh – no longer scarlet and gleaming, but dormant and multicolored, fields of flowers on its slope.

“Yeah,” He smiles at Prompto and Gladio. “Definitely checking that out after we meet Iggy.”

As if saying their absent friend’s name had broken the spell and reminded them of their business here, Prompto and Gladio both turn to the hunters. “Is Iggy still in?”

The hunter nods. “Of course, Lord Argentum,” a mustached smile at Prompto’s complaining of the appellation, “he’s having his lunch, I think.”

Gladio nods. “Got it. He’d be in his study, then.”

Nodding to the men, Gladio led the way – the two hunters stepping to the side to let them through – and Noctis tries not to take note of the way the hunters look at him, both in curiousity and veiled suspicion. He doesn’t really blame them – he’s long enough been accustomed at high security measures – but it does feel weird not to be stopped and questioned. Probably because Gladio was with them, and he walked closer to his Shield, their elbows touching. A glance to him told Noctis that the gesture was welcome.

The interior of the city hall was not the lavish setting he expected. It was utilitarian – the walls were painted a stale grey, and there were a multitude of desks and cabinets, stacks of documents and computers. It was barely populated, though – perhaps since it was still lunchtime – and only a few remained, men and women in business suits looking up from their keyboard and paperwork as they strode through. Gladio nods to them, Prompto raising a hand to wave and Noctis, once again, ignores the curious stares.

Exiting the room, they came upon a hallway with a door at the end. It was simple enough looking – a dark furnishing, an end table to the side with a flower vase on top of it. There was a plaque on the door – Office of the President, it read once Noctis stepped closer – and a hunter stood to the side, saluting at Gladio.

“He’s still inside?” His Shield asks, and the hunter nods. “Good.”

When Gladio turns to him, a hand is on his shoulder and Noctis looks up at his Shield. “What’s wrong?”

The man shakes his head, smiling a bit at him. “Remember what I said? You and Iggy need to talk. Alone. It’s better that he hears it from you, first.”

Prompto smiles from the side. Noctis turns to him. “He won’t believe us, Noct. You know how he is. It’s always been about you.”

His heartbeat starts to race and he grips the hem of his shirt as his brows furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You meant a lot to Iggy, alright?” Prompto urges, his eyes bright. “He was the first…who found you. After.”

The first who found his body, Prompto meant. The first who had staggered over to his corpse, the sword jutting out from his chest, who had crawled through the debris and the blood to reach him.

There are no glass shards in his throat, just thorns that don’t seem to know how to bend. “Oh.”

The hand on his shoulder tightens a bit before surreptitiously rising to his neck. Gladio’s thumb grazes the underside of his jaw for a bit. “We’ll be here, always, but you need to talk this out with Specs. It’s been too long.”

It really has, he thinks. Far too long. He swallows, and nods. Breathes. He’s alive.

Gladio takes a moment to look at him – concern, worry, that deep-seated sadness and so much fucking love – and Noctis can’t help but look back, itching to raise his hand to grip the large one against his neck, to put his own hands over that scruffy chin, feel the indent of that time-old scar over his eyes and feel his pulse under his skin, grounding him. Maybe pull him down and kiss him, to recall the vividness of that warmth inside him – reinforcing the beating of his heart and the pulse of the brand on his chest and the chances that it took to get him here.

He doesn’t, though. Not because Prompto was there and he certainly did not give a fuck about the hunter looking at him in open curiousity.

Now was just not the time. He had to be strong, for himself and for Iggy.

“I know,” He answers, allowing himself to raise his hand and pat Gladio’s arm. “I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

His lover nods. “Never doubted that for a second.”

The assurance – the faith – stomps the fear and he breathes a little easier. Gladio takes a moment to look at him, his eyes roving over his face, before he lets his hand fall from Noctis’ jaw and back to his side, straightening up. He smiled at Noctis. “We’ll be here, okay?”

“Yeah, buddy.” Prompto urges, eyes suspiciously bright but Noctis doesn’t let himself get carried away. He nods, and turns to the door, the hunter looking at him and to Gladio. His Shield nods, and the hunter pauses just a bit in hesitance before reaching for the door and opening it.

He hears himself whisper a quiet word of thanks, stepping through the now open door, just catching the hunter’s words.

“Who was that, sir?” He asks and Noctis turns a bit to hold the knob, slowly closing the door.

It was Prompto who answered, looking at Noctis through the tiny slit before the door shut. “Just somebody amazing.”

∞

The foyer of the office was quiet – an almost empty sort of silence. It was warm, inviting – palettes of mahogany and chestnut painting the walls, beige curtains and golden sunlight creasing through, crepuscular – and Noctis takes a while to appreciate how it reminds him so much of his father’s study. An empty desk stood next to him, a half-turned chair and neat stacks of paper on the desk. The documents were important, that he was sure of, but he doesn’t really care about what’s on them, more preoccupied with how there was a faint scent of vanilla and caffeine in the air and his heart wrenches at it. Fucking Iggy.

He didn’t sniffle. Nope.

There’s the sound of a fan ticking from side to side and he turns to the hall leading to the inner room. There was a fireplace at the opposite wall, the same warm tones on the wall and a long desk to the left. The chair was empty, the curtains of the glass window behind it hanging on the sides. He steals a view of the powerplant through it, his footsteps muffled by the carpeted floor. Something creaks, and his attention is pulled to the right side of the room where two chairs were placed to face an open balcony, looking out to Lestallum below.

The other chair was empty, but the one with its back to him was occupied. Slicked dark brown hair and a pair of glasses threading over his earlobe, a gloved hand on the arm rest, the fingers idle.

Maybe time stands still, maybe it respects the moment – the first time he’s seen Ignis in a long while—

Or maybe it’s just platitudes and romantics and he’s just terrified at what’s going to happen next.

Ignis turns in his seat, his head slowly turning to the left. “Yes?”

Noctis doesn’t know what to answer – staring at the head over the wooden furnishing of the chair, his eyes pinpointing the errant thread unraveling at the side. His lips are frozen, shut.

Something rattles – like chains – and he furrows at the familiarity of the sound. It takes him a moment to realize – those were the chained daggers Ignis used now. The hand still resting on the arm of the chair has not tensed, but Noctis can’t see Ignis’ other hand, probably gripping the hilt of his dagger tight.

“Iggy.” He says, out of the blue and unbidden. His voice is quiet – small, timidly so – but his lips form around the name so familiar, it might as well have been at his beck for as long as he remembered. Because it was at his beck for all this time, knowing that Ignis will always come running the moment he calls, no matter how he tries to lecture Noctis on being irresponsible. Doesn’t matter if it was when he was eight and he wanted a playmate or when he was eighteen and he’s tumbling back, calling for his advisor, watching Ignis torch a rampaging dualhorn.

Striking a Magitek trooper together, daggers out, and finishing back-to-back, always in sync. His rear always covered, observant green eyes tracing over his skin and checking for injuries.

Thing was—it had been difficult to call for Ignis, to call for his advisor’s help knowing that the burn marks on his face was his fault. He didn't know how – Ignis had always been so tightlipped about it, all the way until the end, even over that final campfire, settling to smile at him, secrets close to his chest – but Noctis knows that, as always, he was the center of it all.

Guilt is ugly and familiar, but when the guilt has no direction to turn to – no path to crash against, when it’s turbulent – it burns deep into his bones and affix itself, permanently. It soaks into his words, and into his skin and only Ignis’ ultimatum that he learn to make up for his disability or resign had Noctis biting his lips and gritting through the ugliness.

Seeing Ignis now – though – knowing that he was alive, that he had made it – they all did – and suddenly the guilt is rearing back, striking past his flimsy defenses and echoing in the reverb of his advisor’s name. “Iggy.”

The hand on the rest tightens, the splayed fingers rising to graze the wood.

“Iggy.” His voice is louder, croaking and warbling.

Ignis’ hand is tense, a vicegrip. The chains drop to the floor, dagger clattering after, but Noctis doesn’t really care at all. There’s a sharp intake of breath – a gasp, terrified and ancient – and Noctis’ whole body burns to step close.

“No.” The single word shuts Noctis up, his lips partly open in a repeat of Ignis’ name. There’s everything in that two-letter word. Things that Noctis can never really know or understand, not in all the years that’s gone by – he sees it, sometimes, in the way Gladio looks at him, in the shadows swimming in the gold and amber, and in the way Prompto smiles, how he looks haunted when he doesn’t think Noctis notices him staring – and, yeah, Noctis gets it, okay. He gets that he’ll never fully understand that, never fully realize the consequences of his sacrifice and how it had embedded so deep into the souls of those that had to live on. He gets that there will always be that sliver of darkness in all of them, in the painful realization of what they had to trudge through to get to the light at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel, at the things they all had to do to keep on keeping on. He gets that they’re all damaged, in one way or other, and maybe they’ll always remain damaged, mangled and torn apart.

But there was time, right? Wasn’t time always the best healer? Or maybe it was less on waiting and just on the chances that they keep on stumbling.

“No. No.” Disbelief. Fear. A shadow of resignation. It broke his heart to hear all that from his stoic advisor’s voice. His lips open to form the words, but nothing comes out. It’s all flushed down, past the thrumming in his ears and the coldness of his hands. “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re gone. You’re gone.”

The hollow words, the way Ignis’ voice is high-pitched and thin, the way the syllables echo – how they trace with a kind of intimacy, as if Ignis had repeated the same words far too many times. His fingernails bite into the skin of his palm, his knuckles paling. “Iggy. It’s me.”

“No.” Iggy repeats, a choking sob following the word. “Oh gods, no. Please. Thought I was getting better. Damn it.”

Disgust – revulsion, maybe deprecation – it strikes as a choked laugh and has Noctis stepping close, the weight of the words crushing his insides in a painful grip. “No, I’m real. Iggy. I’m real.”

He doesn’t know where he finds the compunction, the energy, to grip the headrest of the chair and kneel before his advisor, his free hand taking the scarred cheek and the resounding intake of air. His bare fingers feel the softness of Ignis’ skin, the tips trailing at the edges of the burn marks and he just wants to wipe them away – make them disappear – to rid the milky whiteness and return the intelligent green and the flecks of blue – the sea-colored gaze – into those eyes. Ignis is still under his touch, his entire form taut, his free hand frozen as it reached for the fallen chain of his weapon.

“I’m real,” Noctis says – his heart in his throat and all the times that Ignis always had his back funneling into the veins of his arms. “This is real.”

The eyes that are on him see nothing – Noctis knows – but it cuts through all of him, regardless. Ignis always had that skill – had been the first to ever use it on Noctis, back when he was nothing but a stuck-up stickler for the rules that had Noctis rolling his eyes – and, funny, how it took forever for him to appreciate that, bringing his other hand up to the cheek. “I’m real. Iggy. I’ve come home.”

And it’s gravity all over again, just how it is, as Ignis breathes once – twice – thrice, and collapses into Noctis’ arms.

Vanilla and espresso – entwined deeply into who Ignis was – and it’s all Noctis feels as the weight of the man tumbles into his arms, the discomfort of the glasses biting into his neck but a dim echo in the peripheries, fingers grasping at the back of his advisor’s coat, a pair of arms locking around his shoulders. Choked sobs wrack through the chest, and Noctis’ hands run down the long expanse of Ignis’ back, unsure of what to do at decades of grief and regret unraveling before him.

There are no tears on his skin, but there’s the ragged breathing – the longtime acceptance of what had gone past being upturned and Noctis can only guess at how it feels, to have all the little conclusions you’ve drawn, the little snippets of he’s gone, he’s not coming back, he’s dead, I couldn’t protect him, we couldn’t protect him, he left us, he left me that Ignis had wound around him to keep himself strong, knowing his late King would want that of him – would ask that of him – and that he had to keep on going, keep on standing, keep on living, and Noctis will only be able to understand but a sliver of it, at what it means to go on in the aftermath of everything you’ve held dear cold and dead on the ground.

Ignis isn’t crying – no tears come – he’s patched himself far too tightly to cry, maybe, but Noctis feels all the missed chances and regrets in the way his advisor’s fingers bite deeply into his skin, at the graze of his nose against Noctis’ neck and the trembling of that chin against his collarbone.

Noctis doesn’t cry – maybe later, he doesn’t know, but no tears come – but the echoes of sacrifice turn his veins cold, suffusing his skin and only the mark of the Frostbearer on his chest chases the chill away.

He wasn’t, Noctis decided then and there. He’s not. He’s never going to stand for another sacrifice anymore. Now that he knows what it means to those that are left behind – to the people that had been but devastated at his sacrifice – no more. No more sacrifices.

There’s a shuffling, and Ignis pulls back, his lips parted as he breathes out – red like he’s been biting them hard to keep himself from crying out – and he’s pulling his gloves away and there’s a whimper of frustration and—

Noctis reaches up, holding his hand— “You’re going to ruin it, Iggy.”

Slowly, he unclasps the hook of the glove and pulls it away, Ignis’ hand bare to his vision. He sees the callouses from wielding the hilt and the chains far too tightly, the scars on his palm that have healed over time – the age-old burn marks from when he was experimenting with a recipe – and Noctis folds his fingers against his, letting the man feel his skin and the pulse in his wrist.

Ignis turns to him, eyes pinning Noctis still even when they’ve turned grey, the combed-back hair still as stylish as ever—

And all Ignis could do was lean forward to rest his forehead against Noctis’.

“How?” Was all he could say – and that one word spoke of so much more. It spoke of fears and regrets, nightmares and missed chances and the turbulent, vacillating question of could I have done more to keep him safe?

Noctis swallows, breathing in and raising his free hand to feel along the edges of the scar. “Shiva.”

This close, he could see the mark more clearly – the ravages on the pale skin, incinerated, - and Noctis wishes he could do anything – any fucking thing – get rid of it. But he can’t. He doesn’t know. It’s a secret kept close to Ignis’ heart, and he’ll have to respect that and hope that, one day, Ignis will be willing to share that with him.

A hand holds his, Ignis’ fingers tightening around the Noctis’ hand on his cheek. The breath that his advisor draws is hopeful and desperate, the hitch of his voice old and the hand on his grips him tightly. “I thought that I had made a mistake. When you had fallen from Leviathan and I—Ardyn gave me a choice: join him and save you or let you fulfill the prophecy—“

Noctis remains silent, letting Ignis speak, even when his heart is racing at the words. Ardyn had given Ignis a choice. Ardyn had played them all - in a gambit to save himself and the world with it. Noctis grits his teeth. Another Lucis Caelum. Another toy.

“But I didn’t, I refused, Noctis, believe me, I refused—“ Ignis said, his words whispered and emotional, his brows furrowing up, pleading. “But when you disappeared, I thought I made the wrong choice, that I should have made the right decision but I couldn’t, then, because I was weak. I knew, Noctis. I knew what was in store for you and I was so weak.”

“Iggy.” He answers, his voice just as broken, his vision blurring.

Ignis breathes in deeply, pressing closer, his nose against Noctis’. “I was so weak. It was so easy to accept Ardyn’s offer and avoid the fate that was in store for you, but I couldn’t. I knew that there had to be more, even if it killed me knowing what you were about walk into. I had to, Noctis. I’m sorry, oh gods, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please.”

“Iggy,” Noctis whispers, warmth trailing down his cheeks. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

There’s a burbling laugh under the tears, crawling out of Ignis’ lips with a sob. “Noctis, I would have killed the world if it meant saving you. When you died – your father’s sword in your chest – I wished I could have turned back time and made the right choice.”

And—

The thing is—

Noctis understands—

How powerful love can sometimes be, how it can twist rationality and logic and turn them into blunders, leaving you burning wildly. How, sometimes, the line of duty and love are so entwined and the difference so miniscule, that it blurs into one. How, sometimes, when wanting the best for someone – wanting the absolute fucking best – was the precursor of a road to damnation. Maybe he should feel disgusted and revolted at how easy it was for Ignis to succumb to that – to allow the world to ruin just so he could save Noctis from his fate—

But—

He also understands that, sometimes, things are meant to happen the way they are meant to happen and no matter how many times you shuffle the cards, you’ll always be a player in an eternally changing game.

“It’s good that you didn’t,” Noctis says, breathes out against Ignis’ cheek. “Because I know that you’re too good for that. You’re not a bad guy, Iggy. Never had been.”

And he doesn’t say how easy it was, had Ignis asked of him to turn the prophecy away and let the world run into destruction, to agree and say ‘yes’ simply because he was afraid, then. Afraid of the future, of the prophecy, of all his regrets and the missed chances receding into the past as each step brought him closer to the throne.

He understands and he gets it—

They were human.

Just human.

They made mistakes, believed the wrong things and had faith in the wrong people. They built and destroy, love and hurt and was it too impossible to believe that the road to ruin is, maybe, just all the choices we’ve made and the odds we’ve played that never worked in our favor, knowing the stakes are on the high ground? That sometimes we just want to do everything to protect the ones we love, even if it meant hurting someone else? It wasn’t an excuse, Noctis knows. But they were human. Simply human.

Fallible, ephemeral and terrified.

“I’m sorry,” Ignis whispers, turning his head to press a kiss against Noctis’ palm. “I’m sorry.”

Noctis looks at the pale skin, the dark circles still visible under those eyes, and imagines the waves crashing against the cliffs of the Cape Caem, at the flecks of blue amongst a sea of green and the gleam of humor and affection in them, slightly hidden by the silvery sheen of the glasses and Noctis knows that there are no mistakes to be forgiven and no errors to be judged, yet the things that are hardest to forgive aren’t those that we impose on others, but the ones that we set against ourselves—

And when Noctis whispers – ‘I forgive you’ – maybe it’s less of Noctis forgiving Ignis and just Ignis forgiving himself.

The answering breath of relief and the sag of his advisor’s body against him echoes the sentiment. They could not be anything else but simply human.

∞

The view from the top of the Lestallum walls was definitely something else, Noctis thinks, as he swings his legs over the end and his heels dig into the outer side. The sun was just rising, slowly, and he watched – his heart racing and his hands sweating – as color returns to the world after the night has gone. The purple sky lightens to a bright blue, the black fields painted a dark green and the ripples of Lake Cauthess in the distance begin to glimmer.

The sound of even footsteps has him turning and he sees Ignis climbing up, walking evenly towards him. His Shield follows them up, a small smile on his face as he walks towards them. Someone sits next to him and he feels Prompto’s arm against his, turning his head to smile at the blue-violet gaze. Ignis settles with standing, the same with Gladio, to his side.

The sun rises – the light rushing through the horizon, cutting through the monochrome and lending a multitude of colors into his vision. It burns, really, but Noctis doesn’t really mind. The light is warm on his skin, and the presence of his friends – everything he had come crawling back to in the aftermath – captures him in a cocoon of safety.

Click. He opens his eyes, not realizing they had fallen shut and turns to find Prompto slowly lowering the camera, his cheeks red.

“Sorry,” Prompto says, “the view’s really pretty.”

Noctis grins. “It is, isn’t it?”

Gladio makes an agreeing sound at his back. Ignis kneels beside him, facing the light – turns a bit to Noctis.

“Is it, really?”

He nods, even if Ignis can’t see it. “It is, Iggy.”

A small smile creeps up on Ignis’ lips and turns to face the sun. Duscae was waking up to another morning, another dawn.

“I believe you.”