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It doesn’t help that their audience is laughing. Ignis levers a stern look at them and tightens his grip on his dancing partner’s waist before the inevitable escape attempt can be made.
“Ignore them, Prompto,” he says. “Don’t go slinking off now, you’ve almost got the hang of it.”
“The hang of stomping on your feet?” Prompto says miserably. “Yeah, I’ve got that down.”
There’s a ball coming up, the first one that Prompto will attend as the prince’s royal guard rather than the prince’s personal guest. There’s a certain level of etiquette he was trained in already, along with the other recruits that were going into regular Crownsguard services, but with higher clearance comes additional requirements.
At least, that’s how Clarus pitched it. It was a kinder, more professional way of saying “your best friend threw you under the bus.” Because if Noctis had to dance, by Shiva, so did Prom.
He’s not the clumsy teenager he was in high school. He’s grown into his wide shoulders and long limbs, leanly muscled from training, lithe and flexible and strong. Ignis is certain he’ll be a beautiful dancer, if only he manages to learn the steps.
“You’re much better at this than Noctis,” Ignis says plainly, making no effort to lower his voice. It carries easily across the polished surfaces of the airy ballroom. “It took him weeks to learn a simple waltz, and that was with a handful of royal tutors. He may appear graceful now, but appearances are deceiving.”
It surprises Prompto into laughter, the first unselfconscious sound he’s made all evening. Noctis looks betrayed. Gladio looks as though he’s happy just to be alive in this moment. At least they’ve stopped making fun.
“Well,” Prompto says, “I guess I can think of worse ways to spend my time.”
His posture is relaxed, his body radiating warmth against Ignis’ hands where they’re holding him. He’s been sized for a formal tux for the event, and generally Ignis has a proclivity for the sharp and elegant lines of suits and gowns-- but Prompto looks good like this, in paint-stained sweats and one of Gladio’s T-shirts. Ignis almost prefers it to the tailcoat he’ll wear at the ball.
“As can I,” Ignis says, and he signals Noctis to start the music again, and away they whirl.
“Aw, come on, Iggy,” Prompto says, “I know you’ve gone clubbing before. Don’t lie to me.”
Twenty-four and ludicrously charming, Prompto leans languidly across Ignis’ desk like a cat that caught a canary. There’s a smile tugging at his mouth that is almost a smirk, knowing and self-satisfied.
Ignis shuffles paperwork around for something to do with his hands, well aware of their friends’ hawk-like eyes following the verbal volleys.
“It’s been several years,” he says stiffly. It’s the wrong thing to say when Prompto shoots upright, hands planted on the edge of Ignis’ desk, victory in every light and line of his body.
“So you have gone!”
Gladio is looking at Ignis like Ignis just did a backflip over his desk. Sometimes the prince and the Shield seem to forget that he does have a personal life outside of his professional one. It’s just that the lines between personal and professional are perpetually blurred, considering how much of his heart his comrades and his liege take up.
“Prompto, no.” Ignis applies the tone he usually applies to shut things down. It usually works. “I’m much too busy to take a weekend off for no other reason than you want an excuse to make me wear eyeliner.”
The silence that follows is weighted. Prompto blinks, and looks at Noctis, who gently palms his face as though he can’t bear to look at them. Gladio says, “You know your birthday is on Saturday, right, Specs?”
Ignis pauses. Glances down at his ever-present planner, open to the current month, and finds the unmarked date looming back at him.
“Ah,” he says.
“So, you realize you just rendered your entire argument obsolete now, and there's no way you're getting out of this?” Prompto asks gently.
“Yes, I realize that.”
Which is how Ignis finds himself at a club on Saturday, with Sunday off as well. Ignis has to wonder how in the hell his friends managed that, because he hasn’t had two consecutive days free in-- frankly, he doesn’t want to think how many years.
Prompto, at least, is in his element. He’s confident here the way he isn’t in most other places. The neon lights of the club wash over his pale skin and fair hair, turn him technicolor and violet-eyed, and he attracts more than one lingering look as he walks backwards toward the dance floor, fingers curled stubbornly in the belt loops of Ignis’ jeans to pull him along.
“Just one song,” Prompto shouts over the thumping bass, a beat Ignis can feel in the soles of his shoes. “No, two. Three.” He grins crookedly, at himself or at the two of them or at their friends drinking themselves stupid at the bar or at the ridiculousness of all of it combined.
He’s lovely, Ignis thinks, not for the first time. Vivid and wild when he forgets to box himself in. Built for movement, for action, a runner’s body and an artist’s core. His eyes are fixed points in the dark room, like a path for Ignis to follow through the gyrating crowd and dizzying music. His hands are a constant warmth, searing through the thin material of Ignis’ borrowed shirt.
And a strange shiver of delight shoots through Ignis’ stomach at their closeness, when Prompto presses in to say, “Dance with me, Iggy! It’s your birthday!”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Ignis says, and holds Prompto where he is, where there’s barely inches between them. “I’ll follow your lead.”
By the end of the night, Ignis’ feet are sore and his eyes feel bruised from the strobing lights and there’s a headache forming at his temples; but none of these things stop him from following Prompto’s gentle tug on his collar, and leaning in to kiss him while they wait for the valet to bring around the car.
“Thank the Six you’re so persistent,” he says. “I’d hate to have missed this.”
“I’d’ve gotten you one way or another,” Prompto assures him, grinning. Ignis believes him.
Noctis and Prompto are spinning each other around in circles on the dance floor, both of them turning thirty this year and behaving like the children they were when they first met. They haven’t knocked anyone else over, by the grace of Shiva, but it probably has more to do with the wide berth other dancers are giving them than their own observational skills.
“It’s nice to see the two of them behaving with the due dignity and decorum of their offices,” Ignis remarks mildly, setting aside his champagne.
Gladio claims the chair beside him, since most of the organized seating has gone out the window at this point in the evening, looking a happy mix of amused and proud. He’s a little pink from the alcohol, and his eyes are still a little puffy from his emotional speech at dinner. The glance Ignis gives him is unrelentingly fond. He figures he can get away with that today, of all days.
“This is the rest of your life,” the Shield says. “Aren’t you glad you signed up for this?”
“I signed up for this when I was six,” Ignis replies dryly. “Had I had any idea then what my future would look like, that might have influenced my decision.”
Gladio huffs out a laugh, not buying it. They’ve been friends for too long. “Yeah, influenced you to sign up faster. You wouldn’t trade a second of this for all the Michelin stars in the world. And that’s not what I was talking about.”
Ignis lets his eyes wander across the rolling garden. The lanterns and string lights are a warm glow, rocked gently by the summer breeze, and the clinking of cutlery and glasses is a pleasant backdrop, and the live band was replaced by a DJ hours ago, a friend of Prompto’s from his favorite nightclub. The music is energetic, and the people on the dancefloor are having a good time, and Ignis has suddenly had quite enough of his cake and champagne.
He stands, folding his napkin over his plate politely.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, with playful severity, and heads away from one of his closest friends and towards the two of them currently making a nuisance of themselves among people too polite to say so.
“Specs!” Noctis cries gladly, without the good grace to look apologetic. He and Prompto both are shining with joy, they have been all night. “Here to steal your husband back?”
The word sends a thrill through him, and he smiles inwardly. What he says is, “Here to stop the two of you from mowing down everyone within a five foot radius, yes. Now hand him over.”
Prompto’s hair is a mess, and his tie is undone, and his suit jacket is gone to parts unknown, probably never to be recovered. The only elegant thing about him now is the gold wedding band on his finger. Ignis has never loved anyone more.
“How much longer do we have the DJ?” Ignis asks against his hair. Prompto leans more into his arms and hums, unhurried.
“Ace’ll stay all night if I ask ‘im to. Why?”
“That’s how long I want to dance with you,” Ignis says.
Prompto looks up at him, eyes shining. “Everyone else’ll probably get bored and go home.”
“All the better,” Ignis says, and Prompto laughs, and they dance.