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Ignis gets the call at precisely 1:58 a.m., Standard Insomnia Time: a pleasant jingle of 8-bit video game music and the Justice Monsters Five theme that he’s chosen for Noctis’ custom ringtone. By 2:03 a.m. he is dressed in simple trousers and a casual, cashmere sweater and by 2:06 a.m. he has descended the elevator to his apartment’s parking garage, fired up the Audi he’s been so graciously gifted, and gotten on the road to His Highness’ apartment.
It is a short drive (thirteen minutes if traffic is compliant) but his mind cooks up one dozen nightmarish scenarios on the way there. Someone is holding Noctis hostage, the phone was some manner of daemon that had somehow breached the Wall to mimic his charge’s voice to toy with him, Noctis is hurt, Noctis has taken one too many of the pain pills that Ignis keeps well-stocked in his medicine cabinet for days that his back aches become simply unbearable. One dozen less-than-helpful things to justify the reason the prince hadn’t been forthcoming with details, why he’d simply croaked, “I need you,” and disconnected their call.
The secure building beeps his entry, and he rides the elevator to the top-most floor, to Noctis’ penthouse suite and a right proper mess of epic proportions. There are clothes, dirty and clean, cohabitating the carpeted floor in a desperate bid for floor space dominance and his backpack and school books are perched on the coffee table, untouched from the night before. Opening the fridge, Ignis finds the food he’d prepared for the prince’s dinner untouched in its carefully-packed container and sighs. The situation reveals itself in startling clarity, and Ignis sets his key fob and mobile phone on the counter before he hurries to Noctis’ bedroom. The curtains are drawn, the night sky that is his namesake illuminating the red-rimmed eyes and tousled hair of his charge.
He is unharmed and completely unscathed, but also unshowered, and very much awake, a state which would surprise anyone except Ignis. Noctis only sleeps when the weight on his young shoulders is too much, when he can’t breathe for the oppressive, crushing fear that builds an unwelcome home in his chest. When even the threat of bad dreams is worth closing his eyes to sleep.
“Sorry, Ig,” Noctis says flatly, cheek mashed into the pillow and bearing red lines from the wrinkle of pillowcase and blanket. Ah, so he’d laid in one place for quite some time before he’d moved to call him. Ignis takes stock of the clues like evidence at a crime scene, pieces together the puzzle of the frequent battle that the love of his life fights in his own mind.
Ignis perches on the edge of the bed, gently smoothing Noctis’ messy hair back from his brow. “There is no need to apologize,” he murmurs, running his finger along the planes of the prince’s pretty face: across his brow, the bridge of his nose, the arch of each regal cheekbone, the line of his jaw day by day sharpening from baby-soft roundness to a matured angle. “When I said to call me any time, I meant it, Noct.”
Noctis makes a sound rather like a snuffling, burrowing animal and descends into his blanket like a turtle into its shell, whispering, “I just… can’t stop thinking. Worrying. I tried all of that stuff you told me… but nothing is helping. It’s like I can’t turn my brain off.”
Ignis knows every single one of Noctis’ fears. The marilith that had gored him as a child, the ceaseless pain that plagued his every step on bad days, His Majesty’s failing health. He knows the intricacy of each nightmare and knows, almost always, how to banish them for the night. Shifting so he’s sitting against the headboard, he tucks the Carbuncle plush he’d sewn for Noct years ago into a fold of the heavy comforter and places Noctis’ head in his lap. Noctis makes a face at the stiff, ironed corduroy of his trousers but lets himself be soothed, breath settling and slowing.
“Focus on my voice, Noct,” Ignis says, hand smoothing down strands of silky, slate-colored hair. “Focus, and breathe.”
In the morning, he will place a call to Noctis’ academy, informing him that His Highness will not be in attendance that day. He will concoct an excuse, official Citadel business or a food that didn’t agree with him. He will postpone his meeting with His Majesty, citing concerns for Noctis’ mental well-being, and Regis will understand. Perhaps he will message Gladio despite the Shield’s concerns of coddling their charge and they will have lunch together, just the three of them. He will make curried rice and top it with the finest barramundi caught wild in Cleigne, accent it with sweet pepper and tender potatoes from Leide and finish it with a garnish of the tangy zest of a Duscaean orange.
In the morning, he will do all of these things and more, fill his day with duties that fulfill him, but for now… there is only Noct, snoring softly in his lap, and there is only the feeling of being needed. He holds Noct’s desperate plea close to his heart, savors the sound of a softly whispered I need you as Noctis slumbers, and as he himself drifts off to sleep it is with a full heart and the gentlest of tender love.