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As Ignis breaks, so does Noct’s heart.
“Ignis,” he breathes, itching to trace the line of his friend’s smile and wipe away his tears with trembling fingertips. He settles with tightening his grip on Ignis’ hand in a desperate attempt to leech away his pain. It’s not fair. None of this is fair.
His advisor shakes. “Apologies. I… Give me a moment to collect myself.”
“What? Hey,” Noctis intervenes, “why are you apologizing?” When Ignis doesn’t reply, bowing his head so that his tears drip down onto the ground, Noctis attempts to lighten things up a bit. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry like this. This is, what, 32 years of repression? By all means, let it out.”
The smile on Ignis’ lips turns wry. “I wept regularly after your disappearance.”
“Oh.” He grimaces.
Something about Noct’s gracelessness and indelicacy spurs Ignis into laughter. It’s quiet, stuttering, and quickly dissolves into sobs. Noctis hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he’d never seen Ignis cry; he doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been good at comforting others. He can’t even take care of himself.
“Gods, I missed you,” Ignis whispers into his free hand.
“Maybe we should sit down,” Noctis suggests, floundering. Something tells him they’re not done talking. Without waiting for Ignis’ acquiescence, he leads them to a nearby boulder that allows line of sight to their tents. Instinctively, he braces a hand against Ignis’ back to keep him steady, but he doesn’t seem to need much help getting situated. Of course—ten years is a long time. Of course, Ignis reclaimed his independence.
By the fire, Gladio and Prompto are engaged in a conversation of their own. It’s hushed, but tense, and Noctis idly speculates about the topic.
Elbows notched above his knees, he stares ahead rather than face Ignis. It’d be easy, he supposes, to take Ignis into his arms and murmur some kind of platitude, but—he can’t lie like that. He can’t promise that everything’s going to be okay. He can barely assure the coming of dawn, what with the battles they have yet to face.
And at the end of it all: his blood—his death.
How could he possibly hold Ignis, who longed for his return so wholly, and swallow back the weight of his sacrifice? Shatter his dear friend’s peace?
Ignis takes a deep breath, suddenly, and when he speaks, he sounds a degree more collected. “Noct.” Whatever he’d been thinking about must be difficult for him to speak into the tense air between them; he hesitates. “I’m aware we don’t have much time left. As such, I’d like to be completely honest with you.”
Noctis turns to face him, slow to decipher his implications.
“I know how this ends,” he says into the night. “And I’ve known since the day you received the Leviathan’s blessing.”
His heart pounds, once, and then speeds uncomfortably in his chest. He feels clammy, a rush of horror washing over him. “What?”
“At the altar, where we found you and Lady Lunafreya, Pyrna intercepted me. I was shown… visions. Of the future.” Slowly, he meets Noctis’ gaze. Unseeing, but even. “Of tomorrow.” His expression crumples, then, and Noctis can see tears leaking out from beneath the visor once more. “I’m so sorry, Noct.”
Whether he’s apologizing for staying silent or the prophecy itself, Noctis isn’t sure. Even he doesn’t know the precise details of how he’s going to die, and yet—Ignis does?
“All this time… you’ve known?” He feels small, suddenly. Lost. And then, because the memory is still so fresh, he’s hit with the recollection of Ignis’ suggestion from long ago. He reaches out and grasps Ignis’ shoulders, tight. “That’s why you wanted to stop? To prevent what you’d seen?”
“I should’ve known better than to try and run from fate. I didn’t expect you to agree—but it was worth asking. Even if it meant a permanent night, you’d still be alive.”
It’s unlike Ignis to express such a self-serving sentiment, and Noctis is stricken. To doom the entirety of Eos for the sake of one man…
He exhales, fingers digging into him. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Ignis doesn’t respond right away. “I’d hoped I could still prevent it. And then, before I knew it, you were inside of the crystal. Even during the years of your absence, I did as much as I could to find some kind of alternative. Although it proved to be rather difficult with such a handicap.” He drops his head, sighing. “That aside, I didn’t want to add to the burden you already carried.”
“Share the load,” Noctis echoes, closing his eyes.
“Indeed.”
Silence reigns as he absorbs the revelation, the context. How do you sleep at night, plagued by such visions? He wants to probe for details (how vivid? What happens, exactly?) but can’t bring himself to ask when, ultimately, it doesn’t matter. There is only one conclusion.
“That’s… not all.”
Gods. Noctis braces himself. Inhale, exhale.
“Alright. Hit me.”
He startles at the sensation of Ignis’ hand brushing over his wrist. It trails down, seeking his fingers, and presses gently against the Ring of Lucii.
“While you were unconscious, I had an… altercation, of sorts, with Ardyn. He threatened to kill you and—although some part of me was aware he needed you alive, I feared the worst.”
Noctis’ lips part. He can’t find his voice.
“The Ring was within reach, after falling from your grasp.” And plainly, simply, he says, “I put it on.”
“No,” Noctis whispers.
“I did. And you know as well as I do that it doesn’t see kindly to blood outside of the royal lineage calling upon its power. Ravus lost his arm, and I… my sight.”
This time, Ignis has his hands clenched around Noct’s, and it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.
Noctis doesn’t respond, suffocated by his imagination, so Ignis elaborates further. “It hurt. By the Six, did it hurt. I felt as though I was burning from the inside out. But there’s something you must understand, Noct; you are not to blame for my decision.”
“But I am,” he rasps, staring blankly at their hands. “If you hadn’t—”
“If I’d wanted a peaceful life,” Ignis interrupts, “I would have resigned long ago. I’ve been well-acquainted with the risks since I was a child. I’ve come to terms with my lack of sight, as well. My only regret is that I didn’t put an end to Ardyn while I had the chance. If I’d bided my time, perhaps, or pleaded with the rulers of yore for more substantial aid—” He puffs out a sound of frustration. “Maybe he’d have been weakened enough to avoid this kind of ruin.”
The guilt dripping from Ignis’ tone is enough to pull Noctis from his cloud of despair.
“Ignis,” he says, waiting for Ignis to lift his head and turn it back toward Noctis. “This isn’t your fault, either.”
He says nothing.
“It isn’t.” If nothing else, this Noctis is sure of. “When I’m gone—” and at this, Ignis’ jaw stiffens. “You can’t mull over what-ifs.” And that’s not going to be easy. He knows. He’d spent weeks mourning Luna, spiraling, envisioning scenarios in which he’d been able to save her. Daydreaming of better, happier days, where she could live the rest of her life fully. “Promise me.”
Unable to deny him, Ignis nods tersely.
For several minutes, there’s only the sound of distant crackling fire. The weight of Ignis’ sacrifice sits heavily in his chest, and gods, if Ignis was just slightly less loyal, that’d be much less detrimental to his blood pressure—but the small, selfish part of his stupid brain is pleased that Ignis would go so far for him.
They’ve always been a bit more than a crown and his retainer.
“One last thing.”
“It gets worse?” Noctis can’t help but exclaim, the full brunt of his distress bookending the words. What’s next?
“No,” says Ignis, quickly, and the hint of gentle amusement in his tone allows Noctis to relax, if only incrementally. “No. I’m sorry for dumping so much onto you, but, ah…”
“It’s the only chance you have. I get it.” A sigh. “Go on.”
Again, Ignis hesitates. He takes a long, contemplative pause before speaking. Noctis gazes up at the sky; the stars are nearly blinding in their brightness.
“I love you.”
The stars blur.
Noctis wipes tears from his eyes and smiles.
“Oh,” he says, “is that all?”
He expects the disbelieving huff. “I beg your pardon? Is that all?”
Noctis laughs, so softly, and then he can’t stop, snickering into the night because Ignis’ confession is like a balm, and the flutter in his chest makes him feel like adolescent he used to be rather than a king on death row.
“This is not how I pictured this going,” Ignis mutters. Noctis understands him well enough to know that he’s pouting.
“Sorry,” he wheezes. A moment later, he composes himself. “It’s just… I know. Somewhere between trying to recreate my favorite dessert and putting on the Ring of Lucii to protect me—I figured it out.”
“Ah.”
He laces their fingers together. Ignis marvels at them.
What would be less cruel? To leave things unsaid, or admit his own feelings—knowing that nothing will ever come of them?
At heart, Noct’s an idealist. And Ignis took the opportunity to unload; it’s only fair that Noctis do the same. No secrets—not between them, not anymore.
His lack of experience doesn’t do him any favors, but he does what feels right. And although his cheeks burn hot when he lifts Ignis’ hand to his mouth to place a kiss below the knuckle of his ring finger, it’s well worth it.
His answer.
“Noct…”
He was trying to prevent Ignis from crying, but… he can’t fault him for reacting as such. Not when he can barely speak past the lump in his own throat.
“I wish we had more time,” Noctis chokes out and somehow manages to tease, “so I could court you properly.”
“Courted by the King of Light. A privilege I’d happily embrace.”
“Don’t make it too easy on me. You’ve always had the tendency to spoil me.”
Ignis doesn’t confirm or deny the notion, too preoccupied with composing himself and working diligently to accept Noct’s reciprocation. Noctis tries to calm his own heart, substantially overwhelmed by something so simple as a confession, which is—it’s ridiculous, considering what he has to do soon, but…
Butterflies. Rapid, persistent—and comforting. If they can focus on this instead of the inevitable, maybe the night will be more bearable.
He stands, pulling Ignis up with him.
“Let’s get ready for bed.” Slumber seems far-reaching, and Noctis is, for once, sick of sleeping—but it’s worth a shot.
Ignis inclines his head in agreement, and together they make their way back to camp.
Prompto and Gladio peer up at them, gazes attentive, inquiring, and Noctis squeezes Ignis’ hand to signal a pause.
“We’re turning in. Big day ahead,” he says, a little sardonic, seeking normality to ease his friends’ worry lines.
“Night, dude,” murmurs Prompto, followed by Gladio’s grunt of acknowledgement. They don’t seem inclined to hit the hay anytime soon, staying put by the fire, so Noctis leaves them to it and nudges Ignis in the direction of their shared tent. (And he notes that they don’t seem surprised by Ignis and Noctis’ casual, newfound intimacy, which makes him wonder if they’ve always known, or if Ignis had said something during Noct’s absence. Another wave of grief hits him; he’s going to die so, so ignorant about the lives most precious to him.)
Noctis can barely stutter out his own goodnight. He tugs Ignis into the tent and drags a sleeve over his eyes.
Ignis sheds his coat but otherwise stays suited in his glaive attire. Even though they’re protected by the haven’s glyphs, with the influx of daemons, Noctis knows that caution prioritizes comfort.
Kneeling, he reaches for Ignis’ face; Ignis, detecting the motion, pauses.
“Can I take this off?” His finger hooks around the edge of the visor. Ignis doesn’t immediately answer one way or the other, but after a beat he nods his permission.
The scarring looks much better compared to when Noctis had seen it last. Before, admittedly, Noctis had the tendency to avert his own eyes. It’d been a shiny red, botching the smooth skin that Ignis used to maintain. It was an ugly, persistent reminder of the burden he placed on his companions—the very same burden that his father had warned him about.
Now, while his left eye is very clearly damaged, the roughened surface has healed neatly. The other is milky, almost silver in the low light, and unfocused. Unconsciously, Noctis lifts a thumb to trace the largest mark, twisting from his eye to his cheekbone. He moves back to his nose and then down, over the indent of his bottom lip.
He startles himself with the intimacy of touching Ignis’ mouth, hand swaying back, but recovers quickly.
“Honestly? It looks good, Iggy.” And when Ignis purses his lips, Noctis insists, “I’m serious. Remember how Gladio used to boast about how his scars made him sexier? I’m starting to think he was onto something.”
Ignis scoffs. “Oh?” He seems a little embarrassed, but Noctis can discern that he’s pleased—validated by Noct’s interest. Ignis has always been a little vain.
“Yeah. Besides, it’s like… you’re walking around wearing permanent proof of how much you love me. That’s pretty hot.”
The way Ignis’ cheeks bloom red is endlessly fascinating. Noctis is privately relieved that Ignis can’t tell he’s in a similar state.
“I suppose I never thought about that way.”
Noctis lowers his voice. “Mm. Well, don’t forget it, okay?”
“I won’t.” He clears a knot from his throat. “Now. My turn, hm?” Noctis opens his mouth to ask for clarification but he stops just shy of speaking when Ignis’ fingertips brush over his jaw. “The beard.”
“The beard,” Noctis confirms. “Weird, huh? Wonder if I look anything like my dad.”
“You do.” Sensing Noct’s confusion, he adds, “The visions… Well. They painted enough of a picture, despite everything.”
Ignis’ touch wanders, slow and reverent. Noctis wonders if mapping the contours of his face provides him with sharper clarity. He strokes Noct’s cheeks, more affectionate than searching.
“The last time I truly saw you was at the altar, while you were unconscious. What I wouldn’t give to see you again—properly.”
There’s not much Noctis can say to that. He longs for it, too. He’d grant any wish of Ignis’ if he could. Instead, he pushes his face into Ignis’ hands, his own coming to rest atop them, and just breathes.
For too long, Noctis allows Ignis to hold him together. Thoughts of Altissia pull him into silenced anguish and it’s draining to fight back the onslaught of guilt. He wants to sink forward into Ignis’ chest and just cry because the universe is so damned unfair but that’s not his decree. Once he composes himself, he backs away and extends his legs, situating himself into the tattered bedding of the tent.
Ignis—beautiful, brilliant Ignis—smoothly changes the subject.
“If you would, Noct… Indulge me. If we had the chance… what would it be like?”
Noctis tilts his head in consideration, spreading one arm out to accommodate Ignis. This, at least, is easy.
“A mess, probably.” Ignis laughs; Noctis smiles to match him. “I’m serious. I don’t know how to be romantic.”
Ignis lowers his hand to Noct’s chest, curving over the delicate slopes until he finds his heart. Then, he slides down to rest his head above it. Noctis marvels at the feeling—the surge of protectiveness that overcomes him, fierce and fond. It’s warm like the glow of the fire and Noctis chases it, resting his arm over Ignis’ shoulders to keep him snug in place.
“I’d try, though. It’s hard to make you blush, but I can do it.” His mouth twitches back a grin. “You get red all over, y’know? Like, deep red.”
“Anyway,” Ignis coughs.
Noct’s own laugh is hoarse from disuse. “Cute. Anyway,” he obliges, “we’re in our thirties, but it’d be like we’re a couple of teenagers.” He closes his eyes, immersing himself. “We have a diplomatic meeting in fifteen minutes, but I keep pulling you into dark corners of the Citadel to kiss you.” He feels Ignis turn into his chest, and his grin widens at the corners. “It’s fine, right? Even if we get caught, who’s gonna have enough balls to tell the king off?”
“His advisor, for one,” Ignis deadpans. “The Marshal. Gladio.”
Noctis ignores him. “I always manage to convince you of a few more minutes.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Yup. No doubt.”
“Hmm.”
Noct’s hand trails up Ignis’ shoulder, finding the base of his neck. Absently, he cards his fingers through his hair. Ignis sighs in contentment; Noctis prides himself on the honest reaction.
“We’re busy with restoration efforts and managing the city,” he murmurs, “but I’ll take you on dates when I can. I’ll drive us somewhere quiet, where the two of us can just… relax. Camp under the stars, like we used to, without the threat of daemons.”
“I seem to recall you grumbling rather noisily about the notion of camping. I’m surprised you’d suggest it.”
He shrugs the shoulder Ignis isn’t resting against. “It’s not that bad. Far from luxury, but I like it like this.” He squeezes Ignis to make a point.
Ignis lets out another huff, like he’s not quite sure how to react to Noct’s candid affection just yet. “We’ll have to choose a spot near the water.”
Noctis brightens. “Oh, yeah. I’ll catch our dinner.”
“Naturally.”
He ponders what comes next. The answer, he finds, is simple.
He sits up slowly. Ignis sinks into the spot he’d been occupying, and Noctis curves his body around him so that he’s hovering above, propped up by an elbow. Ignis, able to detect his presence, places a careful hand on Noct’s shoulder and tilts his head curiously.
“We run the kingdom together, so it only makes sense that half of it belongs to you. You’ll marry me—won’t you, Iggy?”
The reaction is instantaneous: wide, silver eyes filled to the brim with moisture. “Noct…” he rasps.
Noctis exhales a nervous laugh. “Too much?”
Ignis shakes his head, delirious, and the hand on Noct’s shoulder slides up his neck to wrap around the back of his head. He drags Noctis in and presses their foreheads together, the two of them close enough to share breath. For a long while, Ignis doesn’t speak, allowing the wave of emotion to overtake him, searching desperately for words suitable enough for his liege—for this moment once considered an aching daydream.
He nudges Noctis closer; their lips brush once, twice, and then Ignis presses up against him to kiss him in full. The contact is electrifying; Noctis leans into it, noviced but eager. He lifts his free hand to Ignis’ jaw, tilting it up and to the side and it’s better, sweeter like this. It’s like the final piece of their relationship slides into place, once hovering beyond propriety and duty.
Ignis parts his lips and bestows peck after peck, tightening his fingers in Noct’s hair. He seems remiss to pull back, and when he does, it’s not far at all; he aligns his temple with Noct’s, cheek rasping against his beard.
“So… is that a yes?”
Ignis sighs against Noct’s ear, put-upon, and Noctis joys at the familiarity. “Yes,” he says, impatient. And again, “Yes,” softly, dotingly.
He drops the full weight of himself on top of Ignis, ignoring the grunt he emits, and rests his head on Ignis’ shoulder.
“Insufferable cat.”
“What, you complaining?” He can’t be, seeing as Ignis doesn’t waste time petting his back, soothing a palm over his old injury.
Sure enough, Ignis doesn’t protest any further. The caring strokes persist, lulling Noctis into complacency. Somehow, he finds that the tension begins to bleed from his limbs—until it occurs to him that this is the first and last time he’ll get to have this, and that their talk of the future is nothing but a pipe dream, left to torment Ignis in tomorrow’s wake.
“I love you,” he says, because he hasn’t yet and Ignis needs to know, but it’s hard to form words past the fear and anguish caught in his throat, “so much, Iggy.”
“And I you.”
Noctis screws his eyes shut, shoving his face into Ignis’ shirt. “I don’t want to die,” he confesses, voice breaking.
And maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all. He had a long time to come to terms with his fate; he should be strong and unwavering for Ignis. Ignis, who will live to deal with the aftermath.
“Shh, shh. I’m with you,” Ignis murmurs, raising one hand to cradle Noct’s head. “Till the very end. You’re not alone—never alone.”
He shudders. “You too. After—”
“In my heart, Noct. Always. I’ve got you.”
And at the very least, for the next handful of hours, he does.