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To say the world has tilted carries the mocking of a bad metaphor Ignis fails to think past, but perhaps it is appropriate — being on a train, clunking along the rails at a rhythm. It’s nauseating. Because that’s all he has, aside from the tension so palpable in the air it has the taste of Altissian brine that his tongue fails to forget too.
There are other things hard to forget, and harder things to resolve.
Leaving the Accordo Protectorate appeared the logical choice, the only choice — because what other logic could there be but to move forward when they could not turn back? But the progress is superficial. He doesn’t need eyes to see how stilted conversation has become, how unable they are to sort through the emotional barrier before they left that place. He hears the distant huff in Noct’s breath. He feels the constant shifting from Prompto that comes to little whines against the uncomfortable fabric of their seats. He senses the suppressed coil in Gladio’s looming presence, accompanied by the harsh echo of each step. He should say something; he knows he should, but what weight will his words carry to his companions as lost as he is? What use does he have now anyway, reduced to baggage?
It does not take a strategist to identify the weak link in their small, broken party, but his mind churns in waves after overlapping waves towards the ever-present sink hole, deep and dark. Ignis resigns himself once more to the spiral that he’s helpless to stop, but Gladio’s voice cuts in, grating as steel scrapping against concrete.
Another bait. Another push. Noct bites back, grief evident and lingering in his voice. Gladio, too wrapped up inward, keeps pushing their prince. The anger saturating the air like a miasma dizzies Ignis. It’s not unlike the scourge, the way it plagues their group, haunted by growing daemons. The bicker grows, volume climbing, Gladio so intent on breaking all dams of their frail state, and still, he could not shake the nausea where he sits — this air, the constant clunk accented between their voices. He has to say something because they’re barreling towards wreckage. Some things are irreparable, but they cannot be. At least... not the others.
Duty demands, but he chokes on the nothingness trapped in his throat — only the texture of unformed words scratching as he swallows. Ignis tries again, but even the authority in his voice to tell Gladio enough sounds like a far mimicry of his former self. Neither shifts tracks, and that stings like a confirmation, ignored as the cacophony continues that even Prompto steps in.
Moments like these are like a second drowning, and he finds himself burning again in salt and white noise under the tides.
Ignis jolts, an ache in the base of his neck; it takes him a moment to realize things have ceased, returned to the endless clack beat that fills the compartment. The others are quiet; he doesn’t even know if any of them are still there, until he identifies the sound that drew him back to the present.
Quiet sniffles.
In the din noise of their small train space just across each other, he strains to listen to the stuttering breaths, stifled, and he imagines his companion’s attempt to refrain from bringing notice. Everything hurts in so many ways, and he realizes, again so late, his fist is clenched hard enough to feel grooves in the flesh. He stretches his fingers, palm on knee, calling upon what remains of his calm, and inclines his head. He suspects he knows who, but he ventures hesitantly, hand unwillingly clenching again. “Prompto, are you alright?”
Prompto replies with a loud sniff, ”Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine, Iggy. It’s nothing.” Neither are duped with the poor attempt to mask melancholy and wet tones that bleed into his upbeat response.
“... are the others still here?” he asks, tilting his head again.
“They, um, just stepped away a bit — might need a moment,” Prompto mumbles.
Ignis breathes in, considers his next action and straightens his back despite his tense muscles. “I — that’s good to know. That gives us room to talk because I would like to hear how you are doing.”
”I-I’m alright.”
“So you say, but... you can confide in me.”
“Really, things are okay, or I’m doing okay; it was just another fight. I mean, Gladio didn’t mean to — things will work out.” Prompto quickly clamps down.
“Prompto —”
“Iggy, really, I’m fine,” he puffs.
“Prompto,” he emphasizes, “Please. I may not be able to see at the moment, but these past few weeks have been difficult with... everything. All of us are struggling. Allow me to lend an ear to lift your burden. Or some of it. It’s the least I can do.”
Ignis wants to throw a little joke of don’t-leave-me-in-the-dark, but he lacks the energy. Instead, he just waits, left in silence, unsure of time until he hears a frustrated sigh escapes in a fluster.
“It’s stupid.”
“For all the years I’ve known you, and for all you may complain, the truly trivial never bothered you. I doubt it now.” He smiles encouragingly and hopes it’s not an awkward frown. He waits again with only the noises of the train, unable to read any potential expressions. So, he puts a hand out, palm up and reaching, unsure where Prompto is, but it’s enough. The gesture is foreign enough to them both that Prompto does nothing; Ignis counts, hoping to avoid another sting to his pride, ready to withdraw when the younger man slips his hand into Ignis’ and squeezes. Ignis covers it with his other and holds on, hoping the pressure is reassuring. The gesture grounds him too.
“It really is stupid; it really was just another fight, but I guess, you know, it all adds up. I tried to stop it this time because he was starting to go too far, and I think I just didn’t expect it.”
Prompto’s voice becomes more watery as he continues to talk about how it escalated, about how Gladio shoved him down by the face, about his shock and hurt. He squeezes Ignis’ hand harder before easing off as his voice does too. They stand on such a shatterable precipice, but Ignis starts to feel a glimmer in the ocean depths of that ledge, that maybe, even if he never recovers, they will.