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There definitely shouldn’t have been a swarm of Migardsormrs at one of Insomnia’s checkpoints.
And yet.
Wrong place, wrong time.
Noctis gets the report that Ignis had been injured during the attack. Broken ribs, mild concussion. Relatively trivial wounds—if healing magic were still accessible. But as it is, the news is harrowing enough that Noctis panics.
Fortunately, with Insomnia’s steady reconstruction, they have competent medical staff readily available. He’s told to give the doctors some space and only just manages to obey.
Surgery. Surgery! All because the sharp end of one of his fractured ribs punctured a lung; they had to remove excess air and blood.
Worry carries him through the halls, back and forth, and after what feels like an eternity a nurse fetches him with a worn smile.
Ignis is conscious, he's told, but likely not for long. Noctis thanks her (maybe a little too excessively) and then pushes inside of the recovery wing.
The cot is at an angle so that Ignis can sit up without putting strain on his abdomen. Noctis takes the chair next to him.
Ignis’ hands sway, catching on the bed’s guardrails, and that distracts him for all of three seconds before they drop back onto the sheets. He seems to find joy in the sensation of the starchy thread against his fingertips. Either that, or he’s too overstimulated to stay still for even a moment. It’s a wonder to observe; this version of Ignis is entirely foreign to Noctis.
“Hey, Specs,” he greets, even though he isn’t wearing his glasses and has not in a long, long time. Old habits die hard. “How’re you holding up?”
Ignis’ lashes flutter. He squints at the light, tilting his head toward the sound of Noctis’ voice. “I feel…” His cheek squishes unceremoniously into the pillow. “I feel good. Really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Ignis echoes. “Yes. Gods. What is this?”
This could mean a number of things, but Noctis assumes he’s referring to the stuff he’s gassed up with. Instead of replying, he looks to the nurse for help. She pauses in cleaning up her workstation and dons a smile of indulgence.
“You were sedated,” she explains for what must be the fifth time today. Noctis’ attention doesn’t stray, regardless; he still struggles to understand modern medicine after becoming reliant on curatives for every ailment. “And you’re still waking up, which is why everything might seem a bit out of sorts.” She turns to Noctis. “He’s just been given a dosage painkillers as well, Your Majesty, so it’s likely he’ll be drifting off again soon. In the meantime, expect… a bit of loopiness.”
He quirks a brow at Ignis’ prone form. “Oh yeah? That true, Iggy?”
“Hm?” He makes a grand effort to lift his head and gaze at Noctis. His lips are parted as if he can’t find the fortitude to keep them closed. After a beat, he says, “Noct!”
“Yeah?”
“You’re here?”
“Of course. What, did you just notice?” He laughs, glancing at the nurse, but she’s resumed her business and, after a moment, pushes her cart out of the room to give them some space.
“Noct,” he says again. “Noct. Noct… Noct.”
He should be recording this. The guys would get a kick out of it—and maybe Ignis would, too, after the inevitable mortification of behaving anything less than what he deigns appropriate.
“I’m glad I can say your name again. I missed the way it felt in my mouth.”
… Or, perhaps not.
Noctis scoots his chair closer. Maybe it’s because he’s pretty sure Ignis won’t remember any of this, but he admits, “I missed hearing you say it.”
“... Really?”
“Mhm.”
Ignis grins at him, teeth bared and everything. It’s so dopey that Noctis can’t help but snicker behind his fist, but Ignis’ joy truly is contagious and he feels it in his own chest.
“Where’s my hand?” Ignis answers his own question by lifting it into the air with a triumphant “There!” and motioning haphazardly for Noct’s. “Yours, now.”
Noctis obliges.
With a squeeze, Ignis says, “I’m so happy that you’re here. Your Majesty. My Noct.”
Wow. Noctis huffs, ignoring the rapid drum of his own pulse. “Yours, huh?”
“Yes,” is the emphatic reply. “Most certainly—as I am yours, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Of course. Yes.” He tugs their hands closer to his face and presses his cheek against Noctis’ knuckles. He’s a little warm, and Noctis frets for a moment, wondering if it’s a feverish kind of warmth. But he doesn’t look sickly, just a little tired. Still, he makes a mental note to mention it to the nurse the next time she checks up on them.
His idle thoughts screech to a halt when Ignis adds, “I love you,” clumsily intertwining their fingers together and staring at Noctis with glazed, smitten eyes.
“Whuh,” is Noct’s elegant reply.
“Mm.” A nuzzle. Behind him, a machine beeps, and he cranes his neck back as best as he can with what limited range he has. “Hm? What’s wrong?” And like he’s addressing it, head tilt and all, “Is everything all right?”
Noctis, despite the way he’s still reeling, snorts. “Are you talking to the machine?”
Ignis whips back around. “Machine? There’s nobody back there?”
“Nope. Just us.”
“Oh.”
His grip, which had gone limp, tightens again, and it pulls Noctis a bit closer as a result. Whether or not that’s intentional, he’s not sure. He decides to relocate from the plastic chair to the edge of Ignis’ bed, curved to face him. It’s probably fine, so long as he doesn’t jostle Ignis’ body. In fact, it’s better that Noctis scoots in—so that Ignis doesn’t strain himself doing the very same. A preemptive measure, if you will.
“I feel good,” Ignis repeats, pleased. “Really fucking good.”
Noctis’ laugh chokes him. “Ignis.”
“What?”
He schools his expression and tuts, “Language.”
“Oh,” Ignis gasps. “Apologies.”
“You’re forgiven.”
“Such a kind, gracious king.”
“You think?”
“Yes. I’m lucky to serve you, you know.”
Maybe he shouldn’t be milking this opportunity for compliments, but, hey. It doesn’t hurt. And it means he can say things like “I’m lucky to have you,” without emotional consequence.
Ignis’ face positively crumples. “Really?” And, oh, Six. His eyes are red-rimmed and damp, suddenly. “Do you mean that?”
Noctis covers their joined hands with his own. “Yeah. Yeah, Iggy, of course. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never have to know,” Ignis says, vehement. “I promise.”
It’s meant to be heartfelt, Noctis knows, but it really is hard to take him seriously, looking so sleep-soft and tousled and on the verge of tears simply because Noctis appreciates him. Still, he humors the notion. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” His head lolls to the side, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “So sweet. Noct… Noct…”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
This again. Noctis’ next inhale hurts a little. Maybe he should get undergo an exam while he’s here. Check out the rabbit-kicks of his heartbeat. “Is… Is that so?”
“So much. I want you to know, so I’m telling you. I want you to know. Do you?”
“Yep.”
A breath of relief. “Good. I want to tell you always. I’ve wanted to—since always.”
Alright, wait a minute.
“Since… always?” Ignis doesn’t respond right away, his eyes drifting shut, so Noctis jostles their hands a bit. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember,” Ignis explains, slowly, like they’re teenagers again and Noctis hadn’t been paying attention to the initial lecture (or the second, or the third). “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Noctis echoes.
Ignis sighs, fond, and then passes the fuck out. Noctis can’t shake him out of it; he sighs, staring at Ignis’ prone form.
Damn.
It’s a few days before Ignis is allowed to leave the hospital, but not for lack of trying on Ignis’ part. Noctis received a call on the second day regarding his restlessness and insistence upon returning to work.
“I suppose his work doesn’t particularly strain his body, so long as he stays within the Citadel,” says the same nurse from before, “but I’d still advise another night of monitored rest. It’s your decision, Majesty.”
“Tell him to relax,” Noctis decides, humor lacing his tone, “and that I can handle one day without him.”
Better safe than sorry. He cares about Ignis’ health, first and foremost—but it also helps that this gives him more time to think over what he’s going to do when he comes face to face with Ignis again. Is he going to remember any of his babbling from before? If he does, will he bring it up? Ignore it entirely?
More importantly: what is Noctis going to do?
His phone sounds off again.
[08:27] specs ∞
Ketamine — s. Urging potetnfor patients
[08:29]
>> What
[08:30] specs ∞
Hmm inwasbabfraodntjaybmligjtbhap peb
[08:30]
>> Ahh, I see. Feeling alright?
[08:34] specs ∞
H
[08:34]
>> Well put.
Figures that Ignis would find a loophole, even as dazed as he is. It’s then, when fondness puts him in a chokehold, that Noctis makes his decision.
Once Ignis is well enough to stay conscious without the aid of prescription painkillers, he returns to his duties immediately. Noctis argues, but it’s a little halfhearted; he feels more confident making decisions with Ignis’ stamp of approval.
“It’s a matter of whether or not we can spare the extra bodies for another outpost around this area.” Ignis frowns down at the map, fingers splayed along the perimeter. “Until the next wave of refugees arrive, we’re short-staffed, so to speak.”
Noctis leans in closer, invading Ignis’ space. He could see perfectly fine from his previous vantage point, but. Well. “We can relocate the members of patrol that are more skilled in combat to the creature hot zones. At least temporarily.”
“Which would leave the other areas vulnerable. A risk.”
“One that might be worth taking.” He arcs his body to compliment Ignis’ with one hand propped against the table. “When can we expect the new arrivals?”
“A week from tomorrow.”
He hums. “Yeah, that settles it. Go ahead and order a relocation.” He lifts up his free hand and places it at Ignis’ upper back—a companion’s touch. “Or, hey. We could take care of it the old fashioned way. Me, you, Gladio, Prompto.” His palm slides down, following the gentle inner slope of Ignis’ spine, and settles at the small of his back.
Ignis parts his lips to speak. Words fail. He clears his throat, staring steadfast at the map. “Another option to consider. Prompto and Gladio often trained with Dave and the rest of the Hunter’s guild. But you have no recent field experience, and I’m unfortunately still hindered by my recent injury.”
No ring, no crystal, no magic. It stings to think that he’s useless in combat until he can relearn how to fight, but it’s the truth that Ignis respects him enough not to withhold.
“Right. Right.” He hooks his fingers around Ignis’ waist and tugs him in, cautious of his injuries and achingly gentle. The warmth of his side bleeds into Noctis. “You should be resting, too, or at least staying off of your feet.”
Ignis ducks his head further, chin angled away from Noctis. “Yes, well… Really. I’m fine.”
Noctis watches him. His ears are tinted red, and his fingers have lifted off of the map to curl into a loose fist like he’s not sure where to put them.
He deliberately lowers his voice and tries to catch Ignis’ gaze. “I’m worried about you, Iggy. I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
This close, it’s easy to feel Ignis’ breath stutter.
And then Noctis pulls away. Ignis sways a bit before his posture straightens.
“Speaking of taking it easy,” he says, yawning, “it’s getting pretty late. Call it a night?”
“... Yes. I’ll wrap things up here. You go on ahead.”
Noctis shoots him an arched brow.
“Honestly. I promise, Noct; I won’t stay up much longer.”
“Better not.”
He heads toward the door, gait slow, and tosses a glance over his shoulder when he reaches the threshold. Ignis has turned away from the desk, resting against it as he gazes out the window. A warm wash of color highlights his profile and Noctis lingers to admire his features before bowing out and wondering what he has to do to hear Ignis’ feelings without the influence of drugs.
The next morning, a small group of hunters arrive well before the refugees, effectively solving their security lapse. They agree to take down the Migardsormrs, so long as they receive a bit of backup, for which Prompto and Gladio readily volunteer.
Noctis worries on principle, especially after what happened to Ignis, but they’re back by dinner and he can breathe easy for the first time in days. They’re finally starting to make some progress on reshaping Insomnia into a functional city but these unexpected hindrances aren’t helping.
He spends some downtime meeting the people that serve him. It’s a little awkward; he’s torn between mimicking his father’s dictation or simply being himself and ends up with a sloppy mix of the two.
“Ghhh,” he exhales between his teeth behind the retreating back of a friendly electrician from Lestallum.
Ignis glances at him. “What’s the matter?”
“I just,” he flounders, “sound like an idiot. Like… a kid playing dress-up.”
Which he very much feels with the mentality of a twenty-two year old trying to run an entire kingdom. Bahamut didn’t prepare him for shit.
“It will take some time for you to find a rhythm. What matters is that you’re making an effort to connect with your people.”
He considers this and makes his way down the hall with Ignis at his left. “I mean… I guess.”
“And I assure you: most find your earnest personality to be endearing.”
Noctis makes the split-second decision to take Ignis’ hand in his own as he walks. “Most, huh? And what about you?”
Ignis doesn’t respond, so Noctis laces their fingers together.
It’s like watching a system reboot. “I…” And again: “I…”
Say it. It’s the perfect opening!
Gently, Ignis squeezes his hand. Then somebody rounds the corner and spooks Ignis so bad that he disconnects them with decidedly low poise. Noctis forces himself not to glare when they bow for their king and hopes that he’s given Ignis enough reassurance that this is mutual.
He hasn’t. Apparently.
Days have passed and, while Ignis appears to be much healthier, he hasn’t breathed a word about any intimacy between them. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so Noctis seeks out Gladio.
It starts like this:
“So, Ignis loves me.”
“No shit.”
And ends with:
“Look,” Gladio sighs more than says, rolling his eyes so hard that it must cause him physical pain. “Iggy’s a smart guy. Brilliant. But he’s spent the last…” He checks his bare wrist. “What, 20 years?—resigning himself to unrequited feelings. Pretty sure you could kiss him straight on the mouth and he’d still have trouble believing that you’re into him.”
Fine. That’s just a theory he’ll have to put into practice.
The opportunity arises later that night. It’s midnight and noticeably so; the halls are silent, and the only nearby illumination comes from the kitchens, where Noctis had dragged Ignis after an evening of meetings and work and an unfortunate lack of sustenance.
He sits on the counter behind Ignis, watching him prepare cakepops at the island. —Well, watching the firm plane of his back flex with the movement of him preparing cakepops, more aptly, but nobody’s around to call him out on that.
He’d dressed down a bit, jacket spread neatly on the counter they aren’t using. Short sleeves are a good look on him, Noctis thinks; the hem wraps snugly around Ignis’ biceps, emphasizing the muscular curve. Ignis had always been sort of fit, especially after he’d enlisted into the Crownsguard, but he’d really bulked up during Noct’s time in the crystal.
Noctis is a big fan.
Descending quietly, he approaches Ignis’ back. “How’s it coming?” His arms rise to wrap around Ignis’ waist and he settles snugly against him. Barely, he’s able to see over his shoulder to peek at their midnight snack.
“... Just a little longer yet.”
Where’d Ignis learn to stifle his reactions so well?
Noctis swallows a huff and lifts his chin so that he’s speaking into Ignis’ ear. “Ignis. Look at me.” He feels Ignis begin to shift, so he loosens his arms to accommodate the motion but otherwise keeps them in place.
Ignis’ face is flushed. He can’t quite look Noctis in the eye, so Noctis removes one of his hands from Ignis’ waist and takes him by the chin. He steps impossibly closer, tilting his head up to match gazes.
“So... you were pretty loose-lipped after your surgery.”
“W… Was I?” Ignis breathes.
“Yep. Totally out of it, too. You swore, rambled…”
“Oh, dear.”
“Pledged your undying loyalty, confessed your love…”
“I—what?”
There. That’s the sort of disheveled expression Noctis was looking for. Mouth hanging open inelegantly, brows furrowed—completely aghast. The flush has crawled from his ears to his cheeks to his neck and Noctis can’t fight back a grin.
“Don’t—are you messing with me?” Ignis asks, pitched high.
“Not at all. And—for the record? It’s a two-way street.”
Ignis stares at him.
Noctis shakes his head, fond, and surges up for a kiss. He has no idea what he’s doing, so he makes it soft, searching; the hand on Ignis’ waist curves around to his lower back to urge him closer yet.
And finally, Ignis returns the touch. He brackets Noct’s face with his hands to keep him from pulling away. Noctis can almost taste the mystification on Ignis’ cautious lips.
Noctis hadn’t realized how much nervous energy he’d been containing until it all eases out the longer he spends trading pecks with Ignis.
It feels right.
They split the dessert and, later on, their kisses are even sweeter.