"Dude," Prompto tells Noct while they're working - resentfully, in Noct's case - on their homework, hunched over Noct's dining table. "Why are you so pissed off at Ignis today? What crawled up your ass and died?"
Noct whips around to stare at him. He-and-Ignis is never, ever up for discussion. And yeah, Noct's been a dick to Ignis all evening, and Ignis eventually beat a graceful retreat from the apartment. Noct's been internally seething over it for the last two hours, but - none of this is Prompto's business. Is it?
"I just mean," Prompto continues, completely oblivious and earnest. "He makes you dinners, he keeps track of your stuff, he covers for you before your dad, and like, he gives a shit. Is it - is it so bad?"
Something prevents Noct from going into a full-on monologue about all the ways Ignis was the worst today. Moving him from appointment to appointment like Noct's a show animal. Full-on beaming all of his if you're not at your best my entire life was for nothing neurotic fretting into the back of Noct's head. Noct can write an entire thesis of grievances right now, but - maybe it's the way Prompto's voice goes a bit soft and wistful on the words "gives a shit", Noct doesn't know.
And Prompto isn't even done. "He's not like Gladio, is he? It's not, like, a hereditary title, he just got picked to be your advisor. Aren't you ever afraid he'll, you know. Have enough one day?"
"Bullshit," Noct snaps, finally goaded. "Ignis will never."
He means to sound confident and a bit cynical, because it's obvious, right? But Prompto raises his hands, as if shielding himself. "Sure, dude, sure. Sorry, just - thinking out loud, it's nothing. You would know."
Damn right, Noct thinks, I would.
He checks his phone anyway, and breathes out a tiny sigh of relief when he sees a message reminding him to pack his school bag in advance.
(He even magnanimously intends to do the bag thing, but the homework is exhausting, and then he and Prompto get caught up in a vicious Justice Monsters duel that goes way past midnight, and by the time Prompto staggers into the taxi, the message is long forgotten.)
The next morning begins way too early and way too bright. Noct's head hurts, his muscles ache with a dull, cramping pain of not enough sleep, and his back is seizing up. Ignis' bland retail cheer scrapes against his nerves, and by the time Specs discovers the empty school bag crumpled behind the sofa and turns to Noct, raising a loathsomely disappointed eyebrow, Noct is ready for an all-out war.
He snaps and snarls his way through all his morning rituals, pokes at the fancy omurice Ignis whips up without taking a bite, and takes savage pleasure in a way Ignis' jaw stiffens. Still, Ignis continues to smile at him, as if he's standing behind the counter in Noct's fast-food place.
Well fuck you, too, Noct thinks, and drags his feet until they're late to school. He spends the ride resentfully watching Ignis' hands tighten on the wheel, hearing the distant, discordant crash of Ignis' disintegrating schedule -
- And still Ignis' voice is perfectly level as he wishes Noct a good day. The car glides out of the schoolyard; Noct stares at it and fights the urge to start stomping and screaming.
"He doesn't care," he tells Prompto, mid-lunch, and, judging by the way Prompto startles, mid-unrelated-conversation too. "He's just paid to cart me around, and he likes looking good at what he does, okay?"
"Weren't you guys raised together? Do you think they were, like, paying him in lollipops for playing snakes-and-ladders with you when you were kids?"
Noct feels deeply and absurdly betrayed, for no reason at all. He doesn't even know if the Crown actually pays Ignis, he suddenly realizes, or how much. Gladio lives off the Amicitia's estate - the Amicitias had been given lands and stuff in exchange for their Shield services, Astrals know how many generations ago. And Ignis…
Ignis used to live in Citadel when they were young. He'd had a room in the same wing Noct's quarters are, and stayed there until he'd hit sixteen and started advanced private schooling. And then - what?
"I don't even know where he lives," Noct says bitterly, startling himself with his own voice. "For all I know, the staff pack him into a box every evening."
Prompto glances at him. "The way you talk about him nowadays, it's like you are forced to spend time with him."
Noct's scowls at him - and then a quick sideways flash of memory tears through him, a sweet-sour smell of blood, red creeping up an edge of white lace. Was his nanny paid a whole lot? He liked her, he knows; he can't remember her face.
"I dunno," he mumbles, finally, when the silence stretches too much. "Let's go to class, okay?"
The creeping unease sticks to Noct all day. He waits until Сlassic Solheim Lit (nobody cares), and begins a list of questions in his note app:
- where does Specs live?
- how much is he paid?
- what does he do in his free time?
- why did he change his hair?
- does he even like me or -
He stares at the last line, then deletes the entire file. What's the point of asking? Specs never going to admit anything, and - maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's as trapped as Noct is.
It should enrage him again, but it just makes him sad. Specs picks him up after school, and now that Noct's watching, he can see that he's looking at Noct with caution. Like he's waiting for an explosion, and he's resigned to getting buried under debris.
Noct slumps against the window and closes his eyes. There'd been a time when he'd known everything there was to know about Specs: what he was afraid of; what kind of food he liked; which games bored him and which ones made him happy; how to goad him into slipping the guards and diving into the gardens to explore; what was his favorite toy and what nightmares he had. Why had that changed?
Maybe this new Ignis had grown out of the Specs of Noct's childhood the way you grow out of old clothes, and Noct was expected to let it go. But what if Ignis didn't? What if it was Noct who'd left him behind, like that old Specs is a once-beloved teddy bear now gathering dust in the royal nursery?
In the Citadel training grounds Gladio whacks him with a wooden sword until Noct is one entire throbbing bruise, then finally throws his hands up in disgust. "I know you can do better. What the hell?"
Noct, sprawled on the mats, asks before he can think. "What does Specs do when he's not at work?"
Gladio squints down at him, suspicious for a moment - and then laughs and offers his hand. "Ask him, you idiot, not me."
"You're not helping," Noct mutters, but hauls himself up.
In the car on the way home from training Specs is still watching him, mouth smiling, eyes wary. Noct gets into the car with an explicit intention to be nicer, but this little polite half-smile infuriates him.
He says, "So I flunked my history test," and then he says, "Why did you even bother leaving this report for me, I don't care," and he says, "Gladio says he trained wooden dummies that were better than me today," and - and still there's no reaction he half-hopes for.
By the time they pull into the underground garage and Specs kills the engine, Noct's entire rib cage feels caved in. He's spitting out a mix of taunts and accusations he can't decipher himself, and they abrade his throat on the way out.
Ignis reaches for the door, like he's going to get out of the car as if nothing's happening.
"You don't even care," Noct says, viciously, and swallows hard; he can't look, all of a sudden. "I guess they're paying really well, huh..."
"Noct," Specs says, and clears his throat. "That is, Your Highness." His voice is perfectly even, but there's still something niggling at Noct about the way it sounds, sometimes familiar and wrong. Noct glances down and sees Specs' hands, folded together so tightly that the leather of his gloves is creased.
"I hope you understand that you're fully entitled to ask His Majesty to assign somebody more, ah. Personally palatable for you."
"What?"
Noct's stomach gives a swooping lurch; he feels groggy like he caught a hit to the head in the training yard. His mind is full of swirling terror, because only for all these doubts he never, ever thought Specs would fold for real.
He drags his eyes up (get up and face the music, Gladio booms in his head) - trying to get enough air into his stupid lungs, and makes himself look at Specs leaving him. Doesn't he deserve it? Does he deserve it? Specs is staring fixedly ahead, and yes, it must be awful for him, and now Noct will have to be - proper - and let him go, and take responsibility, and…
He sees something he hasn't seen since they were kids together. Ignis' chin is trembling, just a tiny bit; invisible to anybody who doesn't know how serious, eight-year-old Specs used to hold himself together when told off by the adults.
"Specs," Noct whispers, horrified. "Are you crying?"
He tears his seatbelt open and launches across the gear shift. Specs makes a soft little sound when Noct barrels into him, and under Noct's frantic arms he's rigid, unyielding.
"No," Noct whispers, "no, no, don't please."
Specs swallows, pulling in a careful, close-mouthed breath. "I apologize," he says, over Noct's head, and if Noct didn't know, his voice would sound normal. "I don't mean to upset you, it's..."
"Shut up, Specs," Noct says, because he desperately doesn't want to know where Specs' apology will get them. "Shut up, shut up, don't say anything, don't - aren't you tired of me yet? You must be tired of me, I keep fucking things up. I'm sorry, I'll do better, I'll stop bitching all the time, just don't - "
The gear shift is digging a painful groove in his bad hip, and he can't twist around enough to look at Specs' face, but it doesn't matter so long as he keeps Specs where he is, right now. He hear slittle hitches of breath, little earthquakes shaking Specs' ribcage, and he doesn't know how to stop them or how to stop himself. "You really care? Are you - why are you - do you think I want you to go?"
"Don't you?"
"Are you stupid," Noct hisses, vehemently. "What the hell, Specs. I just want - I thought you didn't care about me, only about the prince stuff, and I suck at prince stuff."
Specs finally unfreezes enough to take a firm hold of Noct's shoulders and straighten him up. Noct's can see tears sliding down Specs' face, making it messy and shiny.
"I care about the 'stupid prince stuff'," Specs says, blotchy. "You are a prince, and it's my privilege to help you be the best prince you can be. But I can't stand the thought of being despised by you. I'd rather..."
There's warmth growing in Noct's chest, melting the awful squeeze of before, replacing it with weird, mellow happiness. Specs' still crying, it's still awful, and yet it's the best Noct's felt in weeks, maybe months.
"Stupid," he says again. "Let's go home? I'll clean up if you make dinner, and I'll eat a carrot or something. I don't hate you, Specs, I swear."
"Two carrots," Specs says, primly, and takes a pack of tissues from the glove compartment. This time, with tear tracks still visible on Ignis' face, Noct hears what he's truly saying.
Several months go by in a state of a fragile truce. Noct tries to pick up after himself, asks Prompto for tips on loading the washing machine, reads through at least one report out of three, and makes an earnest, if not always successful, effort making right facial expressions at the right courtiers. Ignis smiles more, cautious but real, and when he's unhappy with Noct he scolds him with more familiarity and bite, and less the chilly, polite disappointment Noct had dreaded hearing before.
Noct discovers that he can boss Ignis around a bit, order him to rest and take it easier when Ignis starts looking a bit wild around the eyes and even his hair begins to droop. It's a satisfying superpower, in part because Gladio and Prompto join him in teasing Ignis, and in part because - well. It's nice to see that he can make Ignis look less like he's ten minutes from tearing people's throats out with his teeth. On bad days, it makes him feel like he can actually do something, if just for one person. On good days, it's just fun: Ignis is downright crotchety and sulky when he's bossed around, and Noct enjoys every moment of it.
He also realizes that, while Ignis is unimpressed with his whining or slacking or boredom, he will listen on the bad days, when Noct's leg hurts and back hurts and head hurts and the walls loom. When he looks up at the iridescent shimmer of the Wall that's slowly killing his father and feels like an insect caught under an empty glass.
On those days Ignis listens: scheduled meetings disappear, his favorite dishes are served with nary a vegetable in sight, new games are bought, and, more often than not, Prompto is invited in the evenings with gossip and cheer and pizza. It doesn't really help, except that it does, and when Noct starts thinking of Ignis as a part of what's keeping him hemmed in, herded towards a future he doesn't want, he remembers the wet shine of Ignis' tears in the garage lights and clings to it.
He never quite finds the courage to bring his list of questions up, but he lets something slip to Prompto once, on one of the bad days. The next time they're clustered around the kitchen table, Noct hunched over his equations and Prompto cheerfully hacking his way through the First Lucian War history, Prompto takes a deep breath, stretches, and asks in a voice that can almost be mistaken for natural, "So, Igster, what do you do in your free time? Noct here can't take up all of your hours, can he?"
"That's hardly your business, Prompto," Ignis says, repressively, though he adds a smile because, Noct knows, he's secretly fond of Prompto. "And moreover, it's hardly interesting."
Prompto pinches Noct's thigh under the table, and Noct swallows and wills his voice not to squeak. "Tell us anyway?"
The naked surprise on Specs' face makes Noct's flame with an intense flash of shame. When had he last asked? Did Specs decide Noct is really content with thinking that the Citadel staff pack him away once he's not needed, and stopped trying to share?
"Come on, Specs," Noct says again, and makes himself catch and hold Ignis' sliding gaze. "I wanna know."
"I suppose it's a bit embarrassing," Ignis says, righting his glasses, and Prompto perks up like a hunting hound.
"Spill, spill! Do you moonlight as a fashion model? Are you a movie critic? Do you..."
Ignis gives him and Noct another quelling glance, but then sighs and gives in.
"If you both truly have to know, it's cars."
Noct gapes at him. "Cars?"
"I have access to a fleet of some of the best cars ever conceived. Do you even know what the Star of Lucis is capable of?"
Noct says, with utter sincerity, that he has no idea, since all Ignis does with it is ferry him back and forth to school and appointments, ten boring miles under the speed limit.
"I know that a normal car shouldn't have air vents covered in natural leather," Prompto says, "but I figured it was just a crazy rich people thing - no offence, Noct."
Specs waves a hand. "Those are just trimmings. But the rear wheel control is fantastic, and if you put a bit of effort into it, you can control the skid perfectly. It's responsive to..."
Noct gets lost pretty quickly, both in technical details and in seeing Specs actually get into it. He starts honest-to-Titan waving his hands around, still clutching the dripping spatula, and Noct stares until a stray comprehensible word pulls him back in.
"Wait, ramming? Since when do you ram cars?"
Specs looks taken aback. "Noct, you're the sole heir of your father, and I'm the person who drives you around. It requires special skills, and just so you know, I enjoy my evasive driving training."
"Whoa," Prompto says, leaning forward. "Can we see? Can I see? Can you do stuff like in the movies?"
Specs laughs, and promises to take them to see one of his training sessions one day. Noct smiles at him and very carefully doesn't think that he cried a lot over his nanny's death, but never recalled the name or face of the driver who was behind the wheel on the day of the attack.
"Noct," Specs says, quietly; Noct jerks his head up, and finds Specs silent, watching him, intent and worried. "I know it's a bit boring, but..."
Noct winces guiltily, shedding the reverie before he scares Specs out of telling him anything about his life ever again. "Just tired, Specs, sorry. It sounds awesome, honestly. I want to see you do that stuff."
It is true, in any case, and he tries to beam as much sincerity at Specs as he can - and it works, since Specs' shoulders relax again.
"That's a promise, then."
The driving session gets planned and then delayed for a while; the winter rolls into Insomnia fast, with Shiva's Mercy Day looming up ahead.
Exams pile up, and as much as Noct likes to imagine himself as a gloomy, slightly cynical rebel who's above the school worries, he is competitive enough to dread ending up on the bottom of the class rating. The top of the ladder is occupied by intense rivalry between two studious and terrifying girls in his class, and he never felt suicidal enough to get entangled in that, but he does - whatever he might tell Ignis - guard his upper-middle position jealously, if only because he's keenly aware it's not that important. Only Specs is seriously invested in his grades. His dad, on the rare occasions Noct sees him, might smile and ask, but on the whole the adults are much, much more interested in Noct's ability to gladhand people, his successes with Gladio on the training field, and his magic capacity.
The diplomats, the envoys, the guild masters - everybody streams to Insomnia in time for the big end-of-the-year shindigs, and Noct memorizes endless lists of names and positions, shakes hands and learns to listen to Ignis' quiet and caustic commentary in his ear without changing his facial expression.
It's still hard - it's boring, above all, and he tries not to hunch over in guilt every time he thinks it's boring. Shouldn't he find this kind of thing naturally easy; shouldn't he be more his father's son? He knows that Specs, for all that he runs himself ragged and lives mostly on canned coffee and sarcasm, finds enjoyment in knowing who-hates-whom and who-wants-what and who's best to avoid and who will make a good ally. Specs sometimes sets those little domino chains of favors and obligations and quiet barbs and shows Noct how they unfold, with quiet glee. It's easier now to see that this, too, is Specs' way of showing care, and sometimes Noct finds it genuinely funny or satisfying. But he knows, and quietly mourns, that if he were given a real choice between all of this glittering complexity and a lifetime of slinging fries and hanging out with Prompto in the evenings, he would - he would…
He makes Specs take an entire day off and drags him to an old fancy cars exhibition after he sees a stray ad on the street. He wants it to be a gift, and he knows it will create more work instead: Specs has to rearrange his schedule and organize both his and Noct's entire security detail over this outing. But Specs does it with delight and spends the entire tour oohing and ahhing over the chrome and leather and polished wood of the old automobiles. Noct stops understanding the words spilling out of him pretty quickly, but he wanders behind him and grins and nods and nudges Prompto into taking a photo every time Ignis pets yet another shiny car hood like it's a cat he can't wait to adopt.
The cars are kinda cool, too, bulky and oddly shaped but quietly dignified; he tries to imagine Specs driving one of them in chauffer goggles and big leather gloves, and snickers quietly to himself.
They wander around the exhibition ground for hours, because Noct watches Ignis closely and lures him into another excited car lecture every time Ignis remembers that he should return to work. It's a bit boring and a bit perfect; Noct chews on a sticky caramel bar from the concession stand and gets really good at not noticing six plainclothes Crownsguard trailing them.
Gladio slaps his back when they get ready to leave."Good job, Princess," he says, and Noct grins back.
"Thank you for indulging me," Ignis says to them in the parking lot, looking slightly self-conscious, still deeply exhausted but happy in a way he rarely is. Noct drops his eyes and fights an entirely middle grade urge to start drawing in the gravel with the toe of his boot.
"No problems, Igster," Prompto says. "It was a photographer's dream, believe me." Gladio laughs and ruffles his hair.
"Gladio," Noct says, impulsively, "would you mind getting Prompto a lift home? It's getting late."
Gladio gives him a long, considering gaze - then nods. He steps away to call the security team leader and Noct tunes him out with an ease of long practice. They're well downtown, and he knows there'll be at least three cars following them discreetly; he's not stepping on anybody's toes by rearranging the convoy on the whim, not really.
Prompto gives him a thumbs up behind Gladio's back, a bit big-eyed. They wave their goodbyes, and Noct slides into the Star of Lucis.
Ignis takes the wheel and gives a tiny private sigh that Noct immediately and probably correctly identifies as pining for the bespoke mechanical clock in the car, for all of his stated disdain for 'mere trimmings'.
"It was wonderful," Ignis says, softly. "I doubt I would've made time for this exhibition if you hadn't made me, Noct, and I had a splendid time."
Noct feels an inexorable blush crawl up the back of his neck, and ducks his head. He glances at Ignis sideways; Ignis is looking at the road, as always too good a driver to be distracted by anything else, even though it's been snowing for a couple of days, and it's a weekend, so the street is mostly empty. But there's a small, relaxed smile lurking in the corners of his mouth, and seeing it makes Noct feel happy and - and big, he did it, he put it there - and yet twists his insides sharply.
"I'm sorry," he blurts out, and guiltily covers his mouth, because he was not going to make Ignis first (and likely last) free day of several months all about him again. "Shit, nevermind, I'm…"
"For what? It's okay, Noct."
There's a hint of steel in Ignis' tone, meaning that there's no wriggling out - and the invitation is too tempting. "I'm not going to - I'm not going to be a good king."
Specs clears his throat, and Noct talks over him, the words tripping over themselves, because now that he's started he doesn't want to stop. "I know - don't tell me I will learn, I'm trying, I know I need to learn and I will, I will do better, you know I've been trying, but I hate it, and I'm pretty sure I'm always going to hate it, and I'm just - I'm never going to get it, okay? I'm never going to enjoy all this stuff, or remember who has a grudge against whom, or learn to pit Council people against each other, or be that interested in the sewers system, or - I know you keep hoping - "
"Noct," Specs says. He still doesn't take his eyes off the road, but he lifts his right hand off the wheel and puts it on Noct's knee for a moment, warm and solid. "You don't need…"
"Don't placate me," Noct hisses, comforted and enraged in equal measure. "I'm not a kid anymore."
"Don't put words in my mouth." Specs hands are on the wheel again, eight and four, relaxed and correct. "I was just trying to say that you presume a lot about what I hope for and what I'm worried about."
"You told me you care about me being a Prince."
"No," Specs says, serenely, "I told you I care about your princely duties because they're an indelible part of your life, which is still true. Because they're a part of your life, and I want your life to be as happy and as smooth as possible."
He glances at the left mirror, frowns a bit, makes some invisible adjustment on the dashboard Noct doesn't understand. "I fully and earnestly believe you're going to be a great king one day, Noct. You will be just and you will be kind, because you already are, and you will protect your subjects and fight for them. But I don't harbor any hopes for you ever having a knack for intrigue or domestic affairs, no."
"That's my point," Noct mutters. "The fair and just king only works out in fairytales, right? You need to be good at the rest of this stuff in real life. "
"Right," Specs says. "And for that, you'll always have me."
His smile is sharp now, almost vulpine, and within its lurks memory of a boy Noct knew, the one who helped him sow mischief around the Citadel. "Me - Gladio - Prompto, too - other people who will come. You are a Prince, and we are your friends, and we're also yours to serve. You will point us at what you want done, and we will serve at Your Highness' pleasure. Noct, how come you didn't realize it yet? I know your burden is great, but you're not alone, and you won't ever be."
Gratitude washes over Noct, hot and scalding, and then, so fast he scarcely notices the change, rage tinged with terror; his nails leave painful crescents in his palms, and he chokes on the phantom smell of blood and smoke. He barely recognizes his own voice as it comes out. "You can't promise that."
"I…"
Specs glances at the side mirror again, and then says, in a calm and utterly wrong voice that makes the hair on Noct's forearms rise, "Noct, check your seatbelt and be prepared to go into the footwell the moment I tell you."
"What?"
Noct's body feels like it's lagging, buffering; he can't be hearing what he thinks he does. Specs' hands are still school-correct on the wheel, but he's alert when he's been relaxed just a moment ago, leaning slightly towards the wheel, and the blurred street lights start flashing faster past them. "It might be a false alert," Specs says, calmly, "but two cars just had a collision behind us, and I don't like the way they happened to cut off our convoy." He hits a button on the dashboard, and Noct winces at the static filling the air. "And," Specs adds, "somebody seems to be jamming our connection. Call Gladio, Noct, would you?"
There's a faint ringing in Noct's ears; he wastes several precious moments staring at Specs and waiting for him for him to admit it's some weird, out-of-character joke. But Specs' eyes are on the road ahead of them, and he gives Noct an impatient jerk of his chin, urging his on. And - and Noct's phone doesn't connect to a network.
"Keep calling," Specs says.
Noct listens to his phone splutter without making a connection, staring into the rear view window on his side, but there's nothing unusual he can glimpse through the falling snow; a smattering of cars moving at normal speed, several late-night pedestrians hurrying home with shopping bags. What?..
That's when they approach an intersection and a car - Noct only has time to register bulky, and black - screeches to a stop in the middle of the street, blocking their way.
Their own car shudders violently as Specs arrests it motion, barely a meter before collision, and then throws it in reverse. They drive back, barely weaving out of the way of the upcoming traffic, and slot, rear-end first, in the small one-way side-street a while back.
"Hold on," Specs says, curt and calm; he's twisted in the driver's seat, left hand on the wheel and right gripping the back of Noct's chair, and looking behind them as he drives them backwards. "Don't worry," he adds, startling Noct into a small, hiccupping bubble of laughter.
They shoot through the side-street and jump into the larger street, Specs sliding them neatly around a truck and slotting into the traffic as if he didn't just almost cause five separate accidents, and Noct's still catching his breath when the dashboard comes to life. The sound is still staticky, jumping around, but he can hear convoy engaged and car lost and report, Scientia, and Ignis' face is scaring him.
"He's safe," Specs says, tersely, and "Option three," and then launches into an incomprehensive string of codes.
Then he clicks the connection shut; there's a deep furrow between his eyebrows, like he's trying to close his eyes in frustration and can't afford to, and Noct's afraid.
"Specs?"
"I don't like it," Specs says. "There might be a leak, and I don't know where it is."
Noct's stomach clenches; he can feel the caramel bar from before trying to crawl back up his throat. "Somebody sold me out?"
"Or the attackers are just lucky and well-prepared," Specs says. He takes a turn at the intersection, sliding through a yellow light, and then another at the next; somebody honks at them, and Noct, a touch hysterically, imagines tomorrow's tabloid headlines: The Prince of Lucis rudely cutting off his subjects, joyriding on winter roads…
"What do we do?"
"I'll get us to the nearest large police station," Specs says, "and we'll hunker down there, get Gladio. I trust him before anybody else."
The snow, of course, chooses this moment to start coming down heavier; Ignis weaves them in and out of (thankfully still sparse) traffic with care, and Noct tries to breathe and remind himself that reaching for his weapons is a bad idea inside a car. It's not like the Engine Blade is going to make a lot of difference if somebody rams them off the road, but without a weapon he feels horrifically small and vulnerable.
"We're just several miles away now," Specs says, "steady, Noct. Fifteen more minutes, and you can brag to Prompto you saw this evasive driving practice before he did, okay?"
Noct manages a shaky smile at this. A part of him, well-conditioned over the years, relaxes in response to Spec's I have it under control voice; another part of himself is wrung out by panic, slowly freezing into immobility. I'm not ten anymore, he thinks, furiously. I can fight. I can…
"Ten minutes," Specs says, and then swears, low and vulgar; Noct squints ahead, past the windshield wipers, to see two fuzzy dark outlines blocking the road. A car to their right furiously brakes, sliding in the road sludge, and the traffic behind them collapses into a screech of metal and confusion; Ignis swears again, reaching for Armiger, and stabs the dashboard, to the shower of sparks.
"Airbags," he says, cryptically. "Hold on, Noct," - the car adjusts - instead of stopping, they pick up speed, streetlights turning into a band of smeared light, and Noct's going to die, they're both going to die - they plow into the cars, head on, there's a crunch and the impact jarring Noct's teeth out of his skull - and they're free, the ambush swept behind them like so much debris.
Noct whoops in horrified delight. "Told you this car is made for ramming," Specs shouts, stepping on the pedal. Noct can see the tiny dot of the police department far in the distance, a straight line, and they're almost there…
Something looms out of the snow on Ignis' side, too big - dark - the blow goes through Noct's bones, ears, jaw, the world swirls in a nauseating spiral - pavement - sky - pavement - snow - snow - snow - it's like they're trapped in a glass ball of snow that somebody's shaking with delight, and it's silent and it's slow, almost beautiful, this spin, and it doesn't end and doesn't end and doesn't end, until the reality catches up with sight and sound and pain, an implosion in Noct's right temple, and blinks out - blinks out...
"Noct!"
Ignis barks the word into his uncomprehending ear; Noct shakes his head, slowly, feeling as if he's underwater. He's hanging, head down, arrested painfully by this seatbelt; their car seems to be upside down, and there's a smear of red left behind when he peels himself away from the door. He turns around, and stares at Ignis' face, bleached white and stained red, his glasses hanging off his face by one bent arm.
"Thank Shiva," Ignis breathes; he reaches out, touches Noct's shoulder gently, and his face, to Noct's terror, almost crumples. "You need to warp right now, we only have moments while they can't see you - I'll cut your seatbelt, and you warp towards the station, you're almost there. Go, Noct, go! Only leave the station with Gladio, don't trust anybody else."
"No," Noct says, nausea rising up. "Specs?"
"I'll be right behind you," Specs says, as bad at blatant lies as ever; the blood is running down his face, catching in his hair, and if it were a dream, Carbuncle would wake Noct up right about now. Specs reaches out, calling for his dagger. "Go, Noct," he says, "now" - and Noct, unable not to trust him, throws the blade, blind, and he is gone.
Noct makes it to the station in three nauseating warp hops: the last one lands him in the middle of the front hall, scattering the astonished policemen and visitors like startled pigeons. He's lucky none of them attack him before they recognize him.
He tries to explain but his head is killing him, his vision is flashing red and white like a bad glitch in a video game, and his phone is ringing; the tinny sounds of Chocobo Victory Song drill into his brain. Noct unlocks it to shut it up, staining the screen red, and Gladio's shouting on the other end, vowels and consonant smearing together.
"Specs," Noct tells him, garbled and useless, "Specs," and then he blinks –
– his eyes open to gray ceiling and a potion aftertaste in his mouth. His skull feels eggshell-fragile, alien, but the nausea is gone, and his body is his once again. He marvels at it, fascinated and content, until the memories pour in, all at once. He jerks upright. "Specs!"
"They're looking," Gladio says from behind him. His voice is vibrating with tension, but his hands on Noct's shoulders are careful and warm. "How's your head?"
"What," Noct says. He doesn't know the space they're in - a row of grey lockers, smell of paper and plastic and bleach. There's Gladio, and two Glaives he doesn't know standing guard-ready by the door, and a thin, severe-looking older woman in a white lab coat.
She steps into Noct's field of vision, takes a firm hold of his chin, and shines a light in his eyes before he can even flinch. "Your Highness," she asks. "Can you tell me what your name is? Can you answer some of my questions?"
Noct almost shoves her away, but settles on scuttling further backward into Gladio's reassuring bulk. "Noctis," he says, "and it isn't important, Specs..."
"Answer the doctor," Gladio says. "They're looking, I told you."
They're looking means they don't have him - and also means no body, and Noct can't breathe and he has to get it together. He rattles answers to the flashlight woman: no blurriness, he knows the date, he knows his father's name, he knows how he got here - until she rights her glasses and tells Gladio that, while her usual patients aren't in habit of breathing, she's confident enough to declare Noct free from concussion side-effects.
The Glaives let her out of the door. Noct hauls himself to his feet, already reaching for his sword, only to have Gladio snag the back of his jacket and jerk him back.
"Sit the fuck down," he says, "and let the Glaives handle it."
Noct bares his teeth at him; his heart is beating rabbit-fast, loud in his ears. He's losing time.
"Noct," Gladio says, almost pleading: it's so alien it makes Noct pause and look at him properly. He looks pretty horrible, and it doesn't take a genius to know why. "Somebody sold you out. They knew your route and they knew where to cut off your convoy cars, and they knew where to ambush you. I don't know who it was, but until Cor or Drautos personally come for you, the only way you're leaving here is literally over my dead body." He rubs his forehead, swallows, continues. "Ignis wasn't in the car. There's a city-wide manhunt going on right now, because those people, whoever they were, made a huge mess and there's no chance they'll be able to go to the ground. This is good news. "
"They took Specs hostage? That's your good news?"
"The good news," Gladio says, implacable, "is that they didn't kill him on the scene. Do you understand?"
"Fuck you," Noct says, rising to his feet again. His eyes are burning, and he reaches for the Armiger - not the weapons, just the power, the divine fucking power of kings, and if Gladio or the people by the door think they can stop him, they -
The Glaives keep their hands on their swords, and their stances shift into something more fluid, attack-ready, even though they look uncertain. "Noct," Gladio says, calmly; he's keeping his hands low and open, watching Noct warily, as he well should. "Maybe you can go through us, maybe not, but you know what happens next?"
"Tell me," Noct says through his teeth.
"The moment you set foot outside, you'll be a priority for everyone on the scene. If it's your life versus Ignis', and it will be, they'll let him die to keep you out of danger. That's the protocol. That's how he'd want it, too."
"No," Noct says.
"Yes, and you know it. That's how it is, Noct."
The power in Noct surges higher, burning him, higher, waiting to be called upon - and then collapses, leaving him empty and wrung out, terrified out of his mind. "I can't," he says, wretched. "Not Specs, too. I can't…"
"I know," Gladio says, and hauls him into a hug, mashing Noct's nose painfully against the leather of his jacket. "I know, kid. He's my friend too."
He lets Noct cling with patience that's usually reserved for Iris, until Noct remembers that there are witnesses, people he will one day lead. Ignis would want him to make a better showing. Ignis promised him he wouldn't leave. Ignis promised him he'd be just behind him. Ignis might be dead by now, body thrown out like so much garbage.
Noct's phone rings. Noct untangles himself from the safe haven of Gladio's abs and digs in his pockets until he finds it and takes the call, wincing at the red flacking off the cracked screen.
"Dad?"
"Son," his father says, a long, relieved exhale of the word. And then it's gone: his voice is terse, alert, familiar. The King voice, Noct thinks, and hates it bitterly. "Noct, I'm so glad you're safe. Cor is en route to bring you back to the Citadel, and you'll stay with me until this entire situation is under control. Hold on a little bit longer."
The situation is such a neat, slippery little phrase that Noct almost admires it. His father likes Ignis, he knows; his father chose Ignis for him, back when they were children, and Ignis grew up in the Citadel, under his eyes. In darker moods, Noct had sometimes wondered if Dad regretted that Ignis wasn't his heir, his true son. And yet if Ignis doesn't survive, isn't found, his father will deem it an acceptable sacrifice. The proper way of things.
If he starts screaming into the phone, his father won't budge.
"Dad," Noct says, very calmly. "There must be something I can do to find him, and I need your help for that."
"Noctis, you can't…"
"I can't go outside, I know. But there's a connection through the Crystal, right?"
"Noctis," his father says, and stops. Here it goes: one day guilt had crept into his father's voice and eyes, and poisoned everything between them. It's like one day his father had stopped being able to look at Noct without a wince, or talk to him without those little pauses. Sometimes Noct wishes his father would tell him, outright, just how unsuited Noct is to be his heir, and how disappointed he is, and how unhappy he is with Noct.
Noct grits his teeth. "I know my magic is busted," he says. "But if I can give him access to the Royal Armiger, I must have enough power to touch him through the Crystal. I need you to teach me, now."
Gladio's looking at him hungrily, and the hope in his eyes is hard to take. Noct tries not to fidget, awaiting his father's verdict.
"Very well," his father says, finally. "Come home, son. I'll teach you what you need to know."
"What you want to do," his father says, "is forbidden. This is a misuse of the royal power, and an affront to Gods."
The Crystal behind Dad's back is burning softly, each facet creating its own multitude of whispering shadows; trying to focus on his father's shifting, solemn face makes Noct's headache worse. They're alone in the room. Even Clarus and Gladio aren't allowed here, in the sanctum sanctorum of the royal family, where the kings and queens of the Lucis Caelum rule receive their sharp blessings from the Gods.
Being here always freaks Noct the fuck out.
(This is something he's never told anyone, not even Specs, not even Luna. Luna talks to Gods without flinching. Specs took part in the ceremony binding him to Noct's armiger with solemn joy. Gladio's as practical about his worship as he's about anything. And Prompto's too far removed from this world to truly understand, however sympathetic of an outsider he might be. But Noct has been having nightmares about the slippery holy lights of the Crystal ever since his father took him to see it for the first time. He'd learned to find clean, brittle joy in the warp, in the hum of his power – but he's afraid of the Crystal, and he always has been. Maybe the Gods know this about their next chosen; maybe they don't care.)
"Why?" he says out loud. "We use Armiger all the time. Can't I use it to - call him? Send a signal through?"
He keeps alert for Ignis trying to call on his weapons or potions, for this small tug on his heart. But Ignis must be too (dead) incapacitated, or drugged, or - Ignis doesn't.
His father rubs his hand down his face. He's gotten older since the last time Noct saw him, or so it seems: more grey, more lines, darker shadows under his eyes. "No, son, you can't. But you can - if your will is strong, and you know the person on the other side well - you can occupy them. For a while. It's forbidden for a reason, Noct."
Noct stares at him. "Like a possession," he says.
"Yes."
"But that's…"
"Yes."
His father turns away. He's leaning on his cane more heavily than usual as he makes his way up the worn stone stairs leading to the Crystal, and folds himself painfully down to kneel.
"Join me, Noctis," he says. "It's taboo, and it's a sin. I will beg forgiveness before the Gods for you. But even if it works, Ignis might not forgive you. He'll remember the intrusion; it will change things between you."
His face spasms for a moment. Noct knows there's a photo of him with three smiling men in Dad's suite, next to the portrait of his mother. Of those three, only Cor is still around. He never wondered why, before this day.
Noct swallows; he walks to his father and kneels next to him, and the Crystal looms over them like a great devouring mouth. "He can be angry at me once he's home," he says, even as his stomach clenches in greasy terror. "I'm ready," he says. "Show me."
The scariest thing is how easy it is. Once he understands the process and finds the bright, thick thread connecting him to Ignis, he slides in with barely a murmur. It should be hard; even if Ignis is unconscious, his mind should be fighting Noct, clawing for footholds.
Instead, it's like coming home.
Noct opens their eyes; Noct opens their right eye, barely; their left is swollen shut. In their blurry vision there are dark figures, wavering and stretching, looming over them, talking in garbled voices.
He tells their body - it's bigger, lankier, arranged differently, ill-fitting - to move, and the body returns pain as an overwhelming cascade of input: knee, ribs, stomach, back, fingers. Their eye. Their wrists where the zip-ties, pulled too tightly, cut into their flesh. Every breath makes something in their chest shift and creak ominously. He's battered between peaks of Ignis' pain like a pinball caught between bumpers, helpless, up and down and sideways, stunned, and something small and wounded within him cries for it to stop, stop, stop…
He can escape back to his body, safe in the middle of Citadel, at any moment he chooses.
Noct bites their tongue - Gladio always makes him get up and finish the move when he's injured in the training, before giving him a potion; he knows pain; he can work with pain. He's been in plenty of pain since the attack in his childhood. Noct makes himself focus on the blurry voices and bodies around him.
He doesn't recognize anybody, thank Shiva. The accent is rough, unfamiliar; not quite Gralean, but not Lucian, either. Mercenaries? He doesn't know.
"…losing time," one voice is saying, rough but raised too high as if afraid. "Dump him and…"
"…ticket out of…"
"Little shit cost us the target," a third voice says, and its sheer contempt pinpricks Noct's borrowed skin with thousand points of cold. "He'll have to do now." Its owner steps forward, takes Ignis' chin, and tilts it up; his fingers are digging painfully into the sides of Ignis' jaw like he's trying to burrow down to the bone. "Do you understand?"
Noct gasps in pain; their open eye is tearing up. The guy's face, too close, doesn't look like a villain's face: mild brown eyes, wide nose, round cheeks. He still makes Noct want to curl into a little ball and hide.
He lets go of Ignis' jaw and backhands Ignis - Noct - with enough force to bash their head painfully into the unyielding surface behind them. Noct makes an involuntary and completely undignified noise with Ignis' throat; he's afraid. He can't remember the last time he was this afraid, and he doesn't know if it's his fear or the terror of Ignis' body.
"Start answering questions," the guy says. "Prove you're worth keeping alive before the extraction team gets here."
Noct's guts churn at extraction - they plan on getting out. On getting out and taking Ignis with them, if he doesn't do anything. He squints painfully, trying to see the space behind their torturer clearly. Big, echoing, concrete and pipes. It's really hard to think; the hit opened up a gash on their forehead, and blood is sliding down their face.
The man hits him again. "Don't be a hero, kid," he says, almost kindly. "You're too young for that, and nobody would thank you. Let's begin with security protocols."
Noct reels, gasps, strains their ears. He has to do something useful here, he has to - there are faint sounds coming from the outside: a big thumping noise, all bass, and shrill screeching, and a long mournful blast. Behind the backs of the men around them, he can see large doors, sheets of corrugated metal.
The screeching sound is seagulls. Ignis took him to the port, once, when Noct was thirteen and angry at the entire world, to throw the stones into the water and watch the sun set; a seagull stole his sandwich from his hand, and Ignis shared his. The thumping sound - the man says "Okay, then," in tones of mild regret, and takes a hold of their right hand; one of the others gives him the small pliers. The men's faces are slack with professional boredom. "Let me help you."
He sets the pliers to the nail on Ignis' ring finger, very delicately, and Noct's mind convulses in one big no of terror. But he has to - the seagulls - he almost -
Go home, Noct, Ignis says, gently, and throws him out.
His body is all wrong - too short, weird, wrong angles - his hands are weird and wrong and whole; he throws up, and Dad barely arrests him from falling in his own mess. Blood slides down from his nose, trickles into his mouth.
"I have to," he gasps, "I have - he pushed me - Dad, I have to - "
"You can't. What did you find?
He's beginning to cry, he can't help it; his face is full of heated misery, tears pooling in his eyes, sobs crowding his throat.
"Seagulls," he gasps. "Seagulls - something thumping, and a horn? Ships, Dad, I…"
"The industrial port," his dad says, and hauls Noct up. "This will be enough for the Glaives. You did well."
"I don't want this," Noct says; his skin can't hold him together, as if he's going to spill out on the floor at any moment in an ugly pile of viscera and bones. "How can you stand this? I don't want this. Do you understand?"
His father's hand spasms on his shoulder, digs in so tightly Noct bites his lip.
"I do," Dad says. The Crystal flares, the room bathed in holy light, but the king's face stays in deep shadow. "Believe me, son, I do."
The Glaive team brings Ignis back four hours later. Noct's not allowed to see him - not before he's whisked into the private royal clinic in the left wing, and not even when his father goes there to provide healing after the first round of surgeries.
Noct's not allowed on the debrief either, even though it was his own attempted kidnapping. The general details will be released to the public, at least. Noct supposes he'll find out who the traitor within his own convoy was when he's allowed to go outside again and his security detail appears with one or more people replaced. He's not looking forward to it.
Gladio takes him to his old Citadel suite, tells him to wash up and sleep, not unkindly, and stands guard in the hallway. There's something new in the way he looks at Noct, ever since Noct stumbled out of the Crystal room splattered by blood and vomit: not quite approval, not quite fear. Noct's too tired to figure it out.
Noct almost falls asleep in the shower, jerking himself awake moments before he falls and brains himself on its fancy tiles. It strikes him as hilarious - dying this way, after all this effort spent and blood spilled - and he has to crouch down, then slip down to his knees, laughing and sobbing while the water pounds on his naked back.
Of course, once he reaches the bedroom, sleep just doesn't happen. He takes out his phone, but just the thought of replying to Prompto's panicked messages or checking the news or logging into the Citadel intranet for the Glaive gossip on the attack makes his teeth ache.
He lies on his back, on his childhood bed that's too short for him now, watching the moonlight crawl across the ceiling, chewing on his slow, exhausted thoughts until they become unbearable. Then goes online again and starts looking up the information he needs.
He snatches about three hours of sleep before he's finally allowed to see Ignis. It's just enough to make him capable of walking without falling down, but everything is soft-edged and unpleasantly grainy. Gladio takes him to the hospital wing, entrusts him to the guards on Ignis' room, and tells him he's going to hit the sack.
Noct fights a completely irrational stab of fear at being left without Gladio's protection, however unneeded it is in the very heart of the Citadel. "You're not going to see him?"
"Later," Gladio says. "I'll be helping him with the recovery training; he'll have time to get tired of me yet."
Gladio pauses, takes a deep breath, and, to Noct's horror, bows to him with genuine respect. "Thank you for finding him, Your Highness."
Then he turns and walks away while Noct's still groping for words.
There's no stalling after that. He shuffles into Ignis' recovery room, terrified of what's he's going to find there. Ignis is awake, leaning against the headboard, eyes half-closed. His glasses are folded carefully on the hospital drawer next to him. He doesn't notice Noct.
Noct loiters in the doorway, watching Ignis; his palms are sweating and the back of his neck itches. Ignis doesn't look - they must've drenched him in Noct's father's power, and aside from pale yellow shadows around his right eye, his face looks untouched. But his right hand, carefully placed on a pillow, is still heavily bandaged, and there's a bulky outline of a heavy cast on Ignis' leg under the blanket. There's an IV stand, and several tubes filled with clean liquid run from it to the crook of Ignis' elbow.
Noct knows, intimately, what lies underneath those bandages, and knows who is to blame. Come on, you coward, he tells himself. Do it.
"Hey," he says quietly, stepping into the room. "Specs."
Ignis doesn't flinch or jump, just opens his eyes and smiles at him. His pupils are slightly dilated, but he seems lucid otherwise. "Noct," he says, pleased. "A bit too early for you, is it not? You look like you need more sleep."
It's so absurdly Ignis that it derails Noct from his planned speech. "Are you seriously nagging me right now? I'm not the one in the hospital bed."
Ignis makes a sweeping, dismissive gesture with his left arm. "His Majesty was very generous with his power. The doctors are careful about treating the joint damage with magic, so I'm not on my feet yet, but a couple more surgeries and I'll be back on active duty, no worse for wear."
Noct isn't going to get a better opening. "Uh," he says, swallowing. "About that. Specs. I have - I checked precedents? There are protocols for an honorable discharge. You can retire now. Injured in the line of duty, above and beyond, all that - I'll talk to Dad - there will be a pension, like, a medal–"
He can count the times he's managed to truly shock Ignis on the fingers of one hand, and all the previous ones included incidents with Thundara. Judging by Ignis' face, stunned and a little hurt, he's setting a new record right now. He barrels on. "Just - you should, I - we will still be friends, right? If you want. If you want, we'll hang out, I'll make it so you'll still have your Citadel access, you just won't–"
He chokes a bit, stops, takes a deep breath. "You just won't - won't be hurt because of me again. Ever. Let's do it, okay? I'll bring the forms, I'll get everything done."
The silence is deafening. He drags a chair to Ignis' bed, drops into it, folds his hands tightly together. Tries not to look at Specs; tries to make his throat unclench.
"Ah," Ignis says, finally, and when Noct jerks his head up to look at him, he looks relieved, and fond, and not at all like he's taking one of the worst decisions of Noct's life seriously. "So it's a rescue attempt, not a comment on my performance?"
"Specs," Noct says, and Ignis raises his good hand, palm out to Noct, placating.
"I'm touched! I swear I am, especially since you did your research. But Noct, you seem to forget that I'm not actually property to the Crown."
"I left you in that car. You were tortured because of me," Noct says. "I possessed you, Specs."
Ignis loses his smile, at least. He closes his eyes, opens them again, looks straight at Noct. "I wish you didn't," he says, "and you have to promise me you won't do it again. You shouldn't have been through this, Noct."
"You are," Noct says, and he's past trying to hide the tremble in his voice, the catch and slide of it, "not really disproving my point right now. I know I didn't have a right to - invade you - like this, I swear I won't do it again, but you were the one they tortured, not me! And now you're upset that I felt some of it? That's your main problem? Specs, you're fucked in the head. It's some - did they do something to you? Is there like, is there training? Did Cor or Clarus or my - did they put it into your head? Gladio's? Made you sign stuff? What the hell, Specs, this is–"
He begins to pace, hands in his hair, and he knows his voice is rising and the guards by the door can likely hear him, but he doesn't care. "I don't understand? Don't tell me this!"
"I can resign any moment I want to, with or without your permission," Ignis says, with a hint of steel in his voice. "I can do it tomorrow. His Majesty is well aware that my vocation can't be compelled, do you understand? I have the best private education Insomnia can provide, my resume is impeccable, and I'm young enough and, dare I say, capable enough to build whatever career I want, from scratch. I don't need you to rescue me."
Noct stares at him. There's a yawning emptiness in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of freefall. "Ignis," he whispers, "why wouldn't you then? Why wouldn't you–"
"Because this is what I want to do and where I want to be. Noct, how many times do I have to tell you that I've always chosen and will always choose to stay by your side?"
"This can't be your life!"
"Noct," Ignis says, with annoyance so familiar they might as well be arguing about making a salad for dinner, "I've just had an opportunity to reconsider my life choices while surrounded by very angry men armed with very sharp implements. Pray allow me to know my own mind."
"Don't joke about it," Noct mutters. His eyes are beginning to sting. "It's not - don't–"
"Noct," Ignis says again. He reaches for his glasses, fumbles a bit putting them on, and takes a deep breath through his nose.
"I'm ashamed to say that I was very afraid," he says, quietly. "It was - for all my delusions of being stoic under torture, I'd been utterly unprepared, and those men - I was terrified I'd fold. I was tempted to fold, even though I knew that wouldn't do me any good, just so they'd stop hurting me for a moment."
Noct throat is tight; he opens his mouth to say something, anything, and Ignis doesn't let him. "And then you came - Astrals, Noct, of all the reckless, ridiculous things! What if they detected you? They were jamming my access to the Armiger; what if they figured out how to keep you there? Hurt you? Once I realized what was happening, I was so scared for you. I was so angry with you for risking yourself. But you came just as I was losing myself. You came, and found me."
He reaches out for Noct with his good hand. "Sit back down, please? Noct."
Noct gets a vivid image of Ignis trying to get out of bed to chase him down, blown out knee and all: Ignis never, ever plays fair. He sits down and allows Ignis to touch the back of his hand. Ignis' fingers are dry, his fingertips chapped a bit. He used to touch Noct's hands like that when they were kids, when Noct had nightmares.
"I know you hate this," Ignis says. "I'm sorry that you do. You're one of the kindest men I know; of course I know this is a burden on you. But Noct, has it ever occurred to you that you're the one we can't rescue?"
Never fair, never. Noct folds over, drops his head on the edge of the bed, and Ignis spreads his palm over his head like a benediction, running fingers gently through his hair.
"I know," Noct mutters into the folds of Ignis' blanket when he can breathe past the sobs, "I don't want you to go, how awful is it that I want you to be stuck here with me, that I - I don't want you to go–"
Ignis doesn't take his hand away. "You have a job to do. And I have mine, and the hours are pretty horrible, and the scheduling is a nightmare, and one day I might die for you, and Noct, it's still a joy. It always has been a joy. Trust me?"
Noct always did; he always will. It's not, really, a matter of choice.
Some time later Noct says, "Can I stay here with you?"
"Not in that chair, no. Your back will never recover."
"Move over then."
It takes some careful maneuvering, and some cursing, but that's familiar too, for all that they haven't done it for years. He stretches along Ignis' less banged up side, snugly, already fuzzy and half-drunk on exhaustion; under his ear, Ignis' heart is thumping in a steady, familiar cadence.
"Specs," he says, muzzily, giving up, "you promise, then? Forever."
"Yes," Ignis says. "Go to sleep."