[ It's the kind of dream that wrecks you in the most profound of ways; the kind that reaches deep inside and breaks your heart, when tears come freely and grief reminds you that no, it's never really gone, no matter how sunny the days are. He dreams of Insomnia, his dad, the last meeting on the steps and a million ways this could have gone.
His dad, giving his life for his people even as he condemns so many of them to death at the same time, murdered by the Empire.
Noctis doesn't realise that he's crying when he wakes, when tears are drying on his face but it's formed a large, wet patch on Ignis' shirt. He wakes hollow and aching, words caught in his throat.
It's the kind of dream that tears daylight away, saps at hope and keeps you trapped in its shifting confines even after waking. Noctis doesn't understand why. He opens his eyes, the comfortable, familiar sound of Ignis' heart beating in his ear, steady and reassuring, and his arms tighten around him.
He should stop this, he's no longer a child -- he should deal with this the way adults do, and yet. Ignis should be up by now, right? He's usually either gently rousing him awake or extricating himself in the mornings if he thinks Noctis needs more time to sleep. But today? Today feels strange. like something's come in the night and hollowed him out. Is Ignis feeling the same? Is this kind of feeling infectious? ]
[Never let it be said that the prince — his king — his prince doesn't have a gift for understatement.
What had roused him from his slumber was, unsurprisingly, the first of Noct's quiet sobs; that's a response that's been hardwired into him since Noct was a child, that when he cries, Ignis needs to snap to attention, to assess the situation, to respond. Once upon a time it had been minor, inconsequential things — a bedtime too early for Noct's toddler sensibilities, an intolerable separation as the byproduct of Noct's first day of school. But sometimes it had been other things, genuine fears.
He remembers a wealth of nights when Noct was eight years old, after the Marilith but before he'd left for Tenebrae, when he'd been fearful and withdrawn during the day, and had sobbed at night. He remembers leaving his own room to sneak into Noct's, crawling beneath the covers next to him, holding him just like he is now.
They're older, the both of them, but some things haven't changed. This hasn't. This won't.
So he's already awake and waiting for the moment Noct has roused himself enough to speak, and he knows that Noct is touchy in the extreme about people laying hands on his back, but he hopes this will be a forgivable exception; he's rubbing Noct's back softly, high on the spine near his shoulderblades, tangling up in him as much as he can to try to afford the security of a warm familiar body until Noct is awake again.
He sounds dull and wrung-out, when he finally speaks. It leaves Ignis feeling like someone's reached inside him and scooped him out, too.]
It'll dry.
[Quiet. Gentle. Easy.]
We're in our room. The one we're sharing in the canal district of the gray little town we've both lived in for the past two months.
[Just in case he needs that anchor, to shake off his dreams and remind himself of what's real and what's phantoms.]
You're safe. Nothing's going to harm you, Noct. Not while I'm here.
[ It'll dry, of course it does. Oddly enough, it's that comment that pulls him back, provides a strange sort of inexplicably comfort that he doesn't quite understand. Things follow a natural order, things resume, and maybe someday this wound in his heart will close over, and it'll hurt less.
If that is what draws him back, it's Ignis' carefully considered, thoughtful words that keep him anchored, grounding him back into the moment, the day, the morning here, in his arms like he's a child once again. But they are no longer children, and Noctis feels a flicker for shame for being just like this, for not being good enough, strong enough, stoic enough to withstand any of it.
He closes his eyes, curling into Ignis despite himself, his heart in pieces as he takes a few moments to put himself back together again. He should have hugged his dad goodbye, and the desperation to put things right is so intense he almost chokes on it. Ignis, his retainer, his most faithful; the one person who had seen him at his worst and best and loved him all the same, alert and listening.
Ignis must have been awake before he was -- he must have been waiting for him to wake, to speak and soothe. And soothe he does, reminding him of what's real, shining a light on the ghosts that haunt his every step. He doesn't say anything, not for the longest moment.
Safe. He's always safe, with Ignis. When will he stop being the protected? ]
You shouldn't --
[ He starts, then sighs, rubbing at his eyes. He's barely awake, and already he's exhausted. ]
I should be the one doing the protecting. You heard what Cor said.
[He knows immediately what Noct is referencing, of course. It hadn't been one of their finer moments, that first Royal Arm in its tomb; they'd left Noctis no time to grieve for the loss of his father, his country, his worldview, before demanding that he step up and take control of the destiny planned out for him.
He knows why Cor did what he did; the Marshal's methods are more like Gladio's than his own, which makes a certain logical sense. But Gladio has always been the one insisting that he take a stronger hand with Noctis, when his inclination has always been to — not coddle, but indulge.
The thing is, neither one of them is entirely right, and neither one is entirely wrong. Right now, Noct is haunted by one half of the perspective; it's only natural for Ignis to step up and offer the other, quietly and patiently as he can.]
Noct. You have never been one to run from your destiny, no matter how it's been laid out before you. You've never shirked your responsibility to your bloodline, though you've had no choice in what it demands of you. The king sits the throne alone...but don't confuse that with condemnation to a life of loneliness.
[He moves his hand from Noct's back, bringing it around to brush the hair out of his face instead.]
The Marshal...sought to remind you of a truth I know you already know and accept. It was not a condemnation of you. He...
[He pauses, reflecting. The Marshal — hadn't known how to process the fall of Insomnia any better than any of them had, perhaps. Had he? They'd all looked to him for answers, and perhaps deep down he'd been just as lost as any of them.]
Don't ever believe, even for a second, that you're unworthy of the devotion that you're shown by the people who care for you.
[ Ignis takes pains to lay it all out for him, running interference and comforting however he can, and while Noctis knows Gladio probably won't approve, he's grateful for it.
They're getting better at this, lately -- better at reaching each other, reading into what goes unsaid. Without the rigors of their world, they actually have time to reacquaint themselves with each other, to relearn each other's habits. After all, it's just the two of them here, and it's been comfortable. Warm.
He listens quietly, listening to him choose his words, kindness reserved just for him. Ignis might be the tactician, callously efficient at times, but Noctis is his weakness, his calculations revolving around him and his continued survival.
Noctis is grateful, of course, even if he can't entirely concur with the whole worthiness thing. Ignis' devotion rings deep and strong, and he presses his forehead to the base of his throat, remembering the fuzzy night when they were supposed to look at the stars and he had woken up with him, tangled in bed and a warmth fluttering in his heart.
Now, now things feel different. Colder and sadder, and Noctis isn't sure why, like the sense of loss revisited upon him.
At length, he nods, then deigns to look up, shifting so he can meet his gaze and yet still stay in his arms. Here, he can pretend he will always be safe. ]
I will always be with you. At your side; watching your back. Breaking a path ahead of you, when you need it made smooth and straight.
[They've come so far, it seems, from pushing the broken-down Regalia to Hammerhead underneath the searing early summer sun. They've seen so much, endured so much. The king is gone; Gladio's father is gone. Ignis's — Ignis's own uncle is...gone.
They didn't get to say goodbye. None of them knew there would be a need to.]
[ Noctis begins hesitantly. Already the contents of the dream is slipping from him, leaving him with a strange, hollow melancholy he can't quite shake. He stays in Ignis' arms, pressed up against him and sighs. His promise is something he draws comfort from, but more than that, more than all of it -- is Noctis' desire to protect him, them.
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dream.
His dad, giving his life for his people even as he condemns so many of them to death at the same time, murdered by the Empire.
Noctis doesn't realise that he's crying when he wakes, when tears are drying on his face but it's formed a large, wet patch on Ignis' shirt. He wakes hollow and aching, words caught in his throat.
It's the kind of dream that tears daylight away, saps at hope and keeps you trapped in its shifting confines even after waking. Noctis doesn't understand why. He opens his eyes, the comfortable, familiar sound of Ignis' heart beating in his ear, steady and reassuring, and his arms tighten around him.
He should stop this, he's no longer a child -- he should deal with this the way adults do, and yet. Ignis should be up by now, right? He's usually either gently rousing him awake or extricating himself in the mornings if he thinks Noctis needs more time to sleep. But today? Today feels strange. like something's come in the night and hollowed him out. Is Ignis feeling the same? Is this kind of feeling infectious? ]
Your shirt's wet.
no subject
What had roused him from his slumber was, unsurprisingly, the first of Noct's quiet sobs; that's a response that's been hardwired into him since Noct was a child, that when he cries, Ignis needs to snap to attention, to assess the situation, to respond. Once upon a time it had been minor, inconsequential things — a bedtime too early for Noct's toddler sensibilities, an intolerable separation as the byproduct of Noct's first day of school. But sometimes it had been other things, genuine fears.
He remembers a wealth of nights when Noct was eight years old, after the Marilith but before he'd left for Tenebrae, when he'd been fearful and withdrawn during the day, and had sobbed at night. He remembers leaving his own room to sneak into Noct's, crawling beneath the covers next to him, holding him just like he is now.
They're older, the both of them, but some things haven't changed. This hasn't. This won't.
So he's already awake and waiting for the moment Noct has roused himself enough to speak, and he knows that Noct is touchy in the extreme about people laying hands on his back, but he hopes this will be a forgivable exception; he's rubbing Noct's back softly, high on the spine near his shoulderblades, tangling up in him as much as he can to try to afford the security of a warm familiar body until Noct is awake again.
He sounds dull and wrung-out, when he finally speaks. It leaves Ignis feeling like someone's reached inside him and scooped him out, too.]
It'll dry.
[Quiet. Gentle. Easy.]
We're in our room. The one we're sharing in the canal district of the gray little town we've both lived in for the past two months.
[Just in case he needs that anchor, to shake off his dreams and remind himself of what's real and what's phantoms.]
You're safe. Nothing's going to harm you, Noct. Not while I'm here.
no subject
If that is what draws him back, it's Ignis' carefully considered, thoughtful words that keep him anchored, grounding him back into the moment, the day, the morning here, in his arms like he's a child once again. But they are no longer children, and Noctis feels a flicker for shame for being just like this, for not being good enough, strong enough, stoic enough to withstand any of it.
He closes his eyes, curling into Ignis despite himself, his heart in pieces as he takes a few moments to put himself back together again. He should have hugged his dad goodbye, and the desperation to put things right is so intense he almost chokes on it. Ignis, his retainer, his most faithful; the one person who had seen him at his worst and best and loved him all the same, alert and listening.
Ignis must have been awake before he was -- he must have been waiting for him to wake, to speak and soothe. And soothe he does, reminding him of what's real, shining a light on the ghosts that haunt his every step. He doesn't say anything, not for the longest moment.
Safe. He's always safe, with Ignis. When will he stop being the protected? ]
You shouldn't --
[ He starts, then sighs, rubbing at his eyes. He's barely awake, and already he's exhausted. ]
I should be the one doing the protecting. You heard what Cor said.
no subject
[He knows immediately what Noct is referencing, of course. It hadn't been one of their finer moments, that first Royal Arm in its tomb; they'd left Noctis no time to grieve for the loss of his father, his country, his worldview, before demanding that he step up and take control of the destiny planned out for him.
He knows why Cor did what he did; the Marshal's methods are more like Gladio's than his own, which makes a certain logical sense. But Gladio has always been the one insisting that he take a stronger hand with Noctis, when his inclination has always been to — not coddle, but indulge.
The thing is, neither one of them is entirely right, and neither one is entirely wrong. Right now, Noct is haunted by one half of the perspective; it's only natural for Ignis to step up and offer the other, quietly and patiently as he can.]
Noct. You have never been one to run from your destiny, no matter how it's been laid out before you. You've never shirked your responsibility to your bloodline, though you've had no choice in what it demands of you. The king sits the throne alone...but don't confuse that with condemnation to a life of loneliness.
[He moves his hand from Noct's back, bringing it around to brush the hair out of his face instead.]
The Marshal...sought to remind you of a truth I know you already know and accept. It was not a condemnation of you. He...
[He pauses, reflecting. The Marshal — hadn't known how to process the fall of Insomnia any better than any of them had, perhaps. Had he? They'd all looked to him for answers, and perhaps deep down he'd been just as lost as any of them.]
Don't ever believe, even for a second, that you're unworthy of the devotion that you're shown by the people who care for you.
no subject
They're getting better at this, lately -- better at reaching each other, reading into what goes unsaid. Without the rigors of their world, they actually have time to reacquaint themselves with each other, to relearn each other's habits. After all, it's just the two of them here, and it's been comfortable. Warm.
He listens quietly, listening to him choose his words, kindness reserved just for him. Ignis might be the tactician, callously efficient at times, but Noctis is his weakness, his calculations revolving around him and his continued survival.
Noctis is grateful, of course, even if he can't entirely concur with the whole worthiness thing. Ignis' devotion rings deep and strong, and he presses his forehead to the base of his throat, remembering the fuzzy night when they were supposed to look at the stars and he had woken up with him, tangled in bed and a warmth fluttering in his heart.
Now, now things feel different. Colder and sadder, and Noctis isn't sure why, like the sense of loss revisited upon him.
At length, he nods, then deigns to look up, shifting so he can meet his gaze and yet still stay in his arms. Here, he can pretend he will always be safe. ]
You'll be beside me, right?
no subject
[They've come so far, it seems, from pushing the broken-down Regalia to Hammerhead underneath the searing early summer sun. They've seen so much, endured so much. The king is gone; Gladio's father is gone. Ignis's — Ignis's own uncle is...gone.
They didn't get to say goodbye. None of them knew there would be a need to.]
Do you remember what you were dreaming?
no subject
[ Noctis begins hesitantly. Already the contents of the dream is slipping from him, leaving him with a strange, hollow melancholy he can't quite shake. He stays in Ignis' arms, pressed up against him and sighs. His promise is something he draws comfort from, but more than that, more than all of it -- is Noctis' desire to protect him, them.
I will always be with you. ]
You...? You were awake before I was.