As much as he is l o a t h e to admit it ( prideful, proud beast Ignis can be ) – he is grateful for her help. once sordid enemy now turned ill-assured ally, and he would be a fool to dismiss her helping hand as pained as the man might be to take it from the dragon. he is keeper – he is retainer – he has been bred & brought up to be caretaker and protector, the one needing not the assistance of others, only to do the assisting ( and yet he is not so stupid as to turn it down ). 

                        when green gaze meets that of the high-flyer, a s i g h leaves his chest, heavy and humble, a murmur on pouting lips.   “   thank you…  –   ”   before leaning in, sharp incline of a bruised jaw tilting to place a chaste, lingering kiss to the hollow of one arctic cheek.    “   – yet again.   ”

IGNIS IS NOT STUPID. no. he has been lauded, celebrated time and again for his intellect, for his unfettered eye, for his uncanny talent at noticing things. it has been bred into his bones, the ability to see what others did not – what others overlooked. it kept him safe. more importantly, it kept Noctis safe ; his primary responsibility. and yet, the longer he looks into Noctis’ gaze as of late ( darkened and sallow ), the advisor feels as if he’s FAILED in that already. 

something is wrong. 

ignis watches the young heir with rapture and calculation. noctis is far too gleeful at the show of calculated carnage before them. saberclaws lay lifeless and mangled, MTs scattered about the roadside in dead dark, ripped into shreds – shedding their wires like gruesome, veined reminders of their once one-trick existence. bright blue eyes dance with mirth, tinted r e d round the rim with blood and motor-oil as ignis feels the gaze of his prince p i e r c e into his chest. he is in a similar state, covered in filth, a noticeable smear on his left cheek he can see clearly in his peripherals. when Noctis seems to notice this, he strolls – prowls – forwards, a glassy green gaze locked on the image of his Prince – his prince, surely, still..?

he feels the hand before he sees it, jostling his head just so as the younger makes some sort of paltry, amusing effort of wiping away the blood from his retainer’s face ( more so for the princes own enjoyment than for ignis’ comfort, one would think ). ignis feels his h e a r t in the pit of restricted throat, and swallows to avoid it. to fight it. and there is no fear, no anger in his owl-like gaze – only an immense and palpable sense of failure. 

he has failed. and he has no idea as to when. but something has changed in noctis, and ignis failed him.   ❝   thank you… noct.   ❞

beautiful boy. itis a thought that has struck him, on many occasions, over many years – many, many times. long before such thoughtswere proper. long before such thoughts were allowed.thoughts such as those, towards a boy such as he – the little loving crosssection of stars Noctis brought home one grimy afternoon like a well-groomed stray. but the constellation that hadattached himself to the young prince wasnot meant for Ignis. there was no part of Prompto Argentum which could beconsidered attainable. and sothoughts such as “ b e a u t i f u l ” and “ c l e v e r ” and “ hair like thes u n but twice as b r i g h t ” were not thoughts ever meant to pass throughan advisor’s rattling mind.

and yet the thought hadovertaken him more times than he could count, and he had wrapped his knucklesred on marble-tops in penance – Prompto was not anyone’s property, least of all the young prince, and yet by theirfriendship alone Prompto was by all accounts – untouchable. which the young advisor ( too young ! ) had acceptedwith grace and the odd, indulgent gaze at freckled cheeks over the rim of hismorning mug.

it almost feels salacious, how he no longer fights downthose thoughts any longer – how he had come to indulge in thoughts of his sweet, beautiful boy made up entirely ofstardust and battery acid. his thoughts are laid bare in the space between kisses,verbalized now where once they had manifested in red-raw knuckles and bittentongues. and he has become incredibly versed in Prompto, his mannerisms andmoods, his taste for melon soda and how well he hides his nightmares in theleft side of the tent. he knows Prompto. he has come to know him moreaccurately than his young lord ever could, and that – well, at times Ignis wasever so proud of it.

there were no morecomparisons to be had between the king and his right hand – and Ignis no longerhad to share.

he mulls on this, bitesit between his teeth from his place at Prompto’s chest – a place he has made a homeout of, snuggled between breastbones and constellations. his kisses are lazyand loving to collarbones, listening to the gunner sigh wistfully into thecrown of his hair – to the soft, mumbled words, poetic and treacherously sweet.

and he doesn’t respond. no. not right away. there is a moment instead of great triumph, a moment where his chest tightens with the beatingof his heart. stirs up memories of sleepless nights spent mulling theingredients to Prompto’s favourite breakfasts – of solemn mornings, a smiling facein crooked doorway that he was unable to touch.but Ignis can touch now, and he’slearned ever more the intricacies of Prompto’s skin, and wires, and breathlesssighs – and has taken great and terriblepride in the fact that no one knows how to touch Prompto like he does. that Noctis would never be closer toPrompto than he has become ( such a terrible, horrible thought ! ).

he’s learned the art ofkissing through Prompto’s bones, straight into his heart that he swears – in thebeats between kisses – beats at times only for him. let him be greedy, of this one small thing.    ❝  I never fancied myself a skillful gardener--   ❞  spoken, chuckling, as a man brimming with pride and yet humbled happily intothe d i r t by the boy tangled in his arms. he reaches to kiss – kisses atfreckled lips quirked at the corners for their own corny poeticism – kisses thecurve of a cheek, the tip of a nose, both eyebrows ( until tittering laughteris his heady and heartfelt reward ). his nose comes to rest against theyounger’s, breathing – grinning – softly. heloves him so !    ❝  -- but practice does make perfect…   ❞