The warm glow of an Altissian sky never seems to truly end, dissipating from sun to streetlight by night, ever alive and deeply in romance with itself. Ignis taps away at his laptop until late in the evening, relaxed upon the balcony of a more than sufficient villa provided by Altissian leadership. Governance is a nonstop demand on stamina and schedule alike, and in situations such as these Ignis is the one to pick up the slack left by the King’s inability to occupy more than one space at a time.
As per the usual on a typical trip abroad, he’ll enjoy a nightcap and a few stolen minutes-turned-hours in front of the camera with Noctis, if he’s lucky enough to be pulled away from pressing Lucian courts. This night is one of those, delivering Noct mercifully conscious and a little less than half dressed, tucked into bed and mouth full of stories. Ignis has a mind to share a few of his own, too.
“Miss you.”
“I haven’t been gone all that long.”
“Still.”
“You miss my help,” Ignis accuses with the lightest heart, of course.
“That, too.”
It goes on like that until fatigue takes them over, blissfully uneventful. Normal never tastes more sweet than it does like this.
“Sweet dreams,” Noctis says every time without fail, the glint in his eyes just a touch suggestive.
Ignis closes the laptop with an audible click and a hum of delight. There isn’t a dream sweet enough.
To his credit, Noctis is giving it his all, paying attention so earnestly that he grimaces at the reports as he leans close on the couch. Ignis holds them in his lap almost selfishly, definitely not because he’s enjoying the press of Noct’s chest to his arm when he closes in on the quarterlies.
“Your father thought you should start to go over these now that I’m fully versed in them,” Ignis placates, but the knit in his brow is apologetic.He dithers with a finger to the center of his glasses, sliding them up the unique bridge of his nose.
“I know, don’t worry about it,” Noct chirps, relieving some of the pressure weighing heavily on his adviser-in-training’s conscience. “I’m better with numbers than all the diplomatic stuff.”
Ignis adjusts his glasses another time, infernal things, more stately than his last pair but still a bit too large for the youth that lingers in his features.
“Apologies,” he says, waving the report in his hand toward his face. “They’re new.”
“I noticed,” Noctis remarks all matter-of-fact, too distracted by his better numbers to notice the flush on his friend’s face.
Hands smooth over the folds of silk that drape his frame–lithe, but deceptively strong–and accentuate every subtle curve of muscle, every line of bone. Hungering need restrained for now by a purpose much more intimate and heartfelt, they quest downwards. The sash at his waist comes undone, deft fingers working the knot until fabric falls away, revealing swaths of ivory skin cast in moonlight.
“I know you do, Noct.”
It’s only half a lie. He’s never had a reason to doubt Noctis and would never want to, but even years have not made him entirely comfortable with how his body has changed. His scars are a point of pride, not beauty–a physical reminder of his devotion.
…but there’s beauty in devotion, he supposes.
Emeralds peek through unkempt bangs. That familiar trance comes over him as he watches Noctis tend to every scar once given in his service. With every kiss he remembers a story, a fight, a sacrifice; pieces of himself so freely given away, now returned to him, forged in light and love.
Noctis’s lips leave his skin, reverence softening his features as he looks into Ignis’s eyes. “Good, but I’m going to keep reminding you until you believe it.”
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